


Excuse Me, Do You Fucking Mind?

by Nine_3quarters



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (essentially), Academic Draco Malfoy, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Attempt at Humor, But Draco shuts that shit down, But also academic stress, Draco Malfoy is a Little Shit, Draco is a good dude you guys, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Harry is a Little Shit, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, James Potter & Lily Evans Potter Live, Jock Harry Potter, M/M, Narcissa Black Malfoy is a Good Parent, Not everything is about love y'all, POV Draco Malfoy, Politics (only a little because I am trash at politics), Realistic Teenage Stress, Slow Burn, Some things are about love, Voldemort in this fic is pathetic, dadfoot and moomy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:55:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 84,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23791936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nine_3quarters/pseuds/Nine_3quarters
Summary: Draco Malfoy is an eighteen year old boy in his final year of high school. His life, frankly, is perfect. His parents spoil him. His teachers love him. His peers adore him. And no-one outside his inner circle (save for that moderately handsome git Harry Potter) knows that he is secretly the biggest arsehole to have ever walked the face of this earth.His high-school life, Draco knows, is going great. Is going fantastic, actually.His double-life as a supervillain? Well, even Draco can’t be perfectly perfect.Based on the ‘writing-prompt-s’ prompt:You’re a supervillain in high school.Unbeknownst to you, your nemesis actually attends the same school as you, and when some new super-powered idiot comes to town and won’t stop causing trouble during exam week of all times, the two of you decide to team up to take them down.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy/Theodore Nott, Ginny Weasley/Blaise Zabini, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Luna Lovegood/Pansy Parkinson, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 146
Kudos: 238





	1. Ambition and Super-Bodied Individuals

Draco Lucius Abraxas Leroy Malfoy was handsome, and he knew it. He had that irresistible combination of fortuitous genes and impeccable upkeep. This trait of his person could be attributed to his parents, who were both—if Draco did say so himself—gorgeous. His mum especially, but his father in particular.

He was also smart. Very smart. Second only to Granger, that insufferable know-it-all. He’d gotten all A*s in his GCSEs and been predicted all As in his A levels. It helped, he supposed, that he also worked extremely hard—regularly making sure that his notes were up to date and revising efficiently and thoroughly weeks before an exam. Of course, no one _knew_ that Draco near killed himself during exam season. Over the years, Draco had painstakingly created a very meticulous image of effortless perfection. 

Draco was also an arsehole. But he was a charming arsehole. So charming, in fact, that most people who knew him thought that his arsieness was simply part of his wit. Which, to an extent, was true. To a larger extent, Draco simply didn’t have the patience to weather fools. 

Most of all, though, Draco was ambitious. He knew he was going places. He knew he was meant for something bigger, something _greater._ Draco had known, from the day he’d learnt how to formulate thought, that he was made for greatness. His reputation in school was that of a prince, but Draco knew he wasn’t a prince. His middle name was ‘Leroy,’—a French derivative of _Le Roy,_ or ‘The King,’—for fuck’s sake. Draco had dreams, big dreams, dreams so large that it was a wonder they could fit inside his mind. 

Approaching the end of his final year in school, Draco was closer to his future than he had ever been before. His life was just about to begin. His dreams lay just out of reach, so close that Draco could almost taste them.

Draco had plans. He had plans to change the world. He had plans to build a society without oppression, without suffering. He had plans to end conflict built upon political gain. He had plans to end hunger, to end poverty. He had plans, he had plans, he had plans. His best friend Pansy regularly made fun of his plans, calling them juvenile, calling them uncharacteristically idealistic. But Pansy was a bitch, so Draco mostly ignored her. Draco, you see, had _plans._

But to carry out those plans, he needed power. He needed power and he needed it soon. He needed, also, knowledge, but knowledge was a progressive pursuit. The grasping of power, in a similar but crucially different way, had to be premeditated. Seeds had to be sown long before the fruits could be reaped.

This was something Draco had realised in his early teens, when his ambition had solidified into something clearer. Even before then, though—when he was younger and his desire for something more was only vaguely understood by even himself—he’d known he’d need power, sometime, somehow.

It made sense, then, why Draco’s first thought the moment after he’d realised the superpowers he possessed weren’t exactly— _normal,_ had been world domination.

* * *

On his fifth birthday, Draco's parents had sat him down on the couch in their smaller drawing room and had explained. Or had tried to. It took them a while to begin, it was a complicated issue after all. Eventually, his mum had given his father a withering look and had said, simply: “Draco, darling, you know how you can move things without touching them?”

Draco had smiled at her, “Yeesssss…”

“And you know how Father can change how he looks?”

“Yess…”

“And how Mummy can yell really, really loudly?”

Draco scrunched his face in confusion. He wondered where all this was going. “Yes?”

“Well,” said Narcissa Malfoy, Draco’s beautiful mother, “Other people can’t do that.”

“What?”

“Not ‘what,’ darling, ‘pardon me,’”

Draco corrected: “Pardon me?”

“Most people can’t move things without touching them, or change how they look, or break the sound barrier with their voice,”

“What’s a sound barrier?”

“It’s the aerodynamic dra— nevermind, sweetheart, it doesn’t matter,” Narcissa had said, stroking his head comfortingly, “Just remember to never tell anyone that you can move things with your thoughts.”

“Okay, Mummy.”

Summer melted into Autumn, and then crumpled into Winter. Spring brought with it harsh winds and then with the re-emergence of the sun, came Summer again. Like this, at a snail’s pace, time passed.

* * *

The first time Draco unknowingly hypnotised someone came as a shock. To his parents, that is. Oh, and also Pansy—who’d had the pleasure of being the person he’d hypnotised unwittingly.

“Draco?” His mum had asked, smiling in that way which meant that Draco was going to get all his sweets taken away forever and ever till the end of time itself.

“Mummy?” Draco had returned, widening his eyes innocently and appearing every bit a precious gift to mankind. 

“Why does Pansy think that she’s a dog?”

“We’re playing house, Mummy,” Draco had explained, from his shaded seat in the garden.

“I see. Pansy chose to be the dog?”

“Well, no, Pansy wanted to be the Mum and she wanted me to be the Dad but I didn’t want to marry her because her nose looks like a pig and I don’t want my babies to have pig noses,” Draco shook his head, pausing for a while and imagining that gruesome reality, _“pig noses—_ no, no,” he shuddered, “Anyway, I convinced her to be the dog.”

“You convinced her to be the dog.” Narcissa repeated.

“Yes, exactly.”

“And what, pray tell, did you say to her to convince her?”

“I said: _‘Pansy, you’re going to be the dog,’_ and she made this really daft face and started barking.”

“I see.” Narcissa stared at Draco. “And how long ago did you tell her this?”

“About an hour after she arrived, maybe?”

Narcissa stared at Draco some more. “And she’s just been playing the dog this entire time.”

Pansy had arrived five hours ago. “Yes?”

Narcissa looked over at Pansy, who was currently chasing after her own butt. Then, Narcissa looked back at Draco, “And what, exactly, are you meant to be?”

Draco turned his nose up smugly from the children’s book he’d been reading, “I’m a ne’er-do-well who’s allergic to dogs. Obviously.” Perhaps, that last part had been unnecessary. 

Narcissa smiled again. Draco approximated that he was in the most trouble he’d ever been in his entire life. 

“Obviously.” Narcissa repeated. “Draco?”

“Yes, Mummy?” Draco tried tilting his head. It didn’t work.

“Tell Pansy that she doesn’t have to play the dog anymore, and then get in the car—we’re going on a trip.” Narcissa turned to leave, “Oh, and Draco?”

“Yes, Mummy?” Draco asked, feeling a deep sense of foreboding.

“You’re grounded.”

Telling Pansy that she didn’t have to play the dog anymore didn’t have much of an effect, so Draco tied a piece of string to her ponytail and used that as a leash to bring her to the car. Narcissa glanced at them as they entered the backseat and rubbed her forehead, muttering something about advil or whatever.

The chauffeur drove them out of their residence—the view outside Draco’s window melting from elegant architecture to what seemed like endless green foliage. And then, eventually, with Draco lulled to near sleep by the low vibrations of the engine, the greenery melted into cement and glass and metal. They were in the city, and it was sprawling, decadent, and loud. Just like that, Draco fell in love.

He pressed his face to the window and watched his surroundings with wide eyes. Everything was a novelty. It was like a collage come to life. Tall skyscrapers on this end, a row of smaller establishments on that. Despite the congestion on the road, vehicles continued to move forward seamlessly. Crossing the street, walking on the sidewalks, entering buildings, there were people everywhere, and every single one of them seemed to carry a story within themselves.

“Woah,” said Draco, against the glass. Next to him, Pansy barked and licked his cheek. “That’s disgusting, Pansy.” Draco scowled, rubbing his cheek, “Bad dog.”

Their car stopped in front of a short, wide building.

“We’ve arrived, Madam.”

Narcissa peered out of her window, “Indeed. Follow me Draco, and don’t let go of Pansy’s leash.”

Draco opened the car door and slid out with Pansy’s leash in hand. Pansy leapt out of the car and began walking on the sidewalk as a dog would. Draco stared at her.

“...What’s wrong with Pansy, Mummy?” Draco asked, all of a sudden realising that their game had gone on for far longer than Pansy would have usually tolerated.

Narcissa looked at her son, “That, my darling, is what we’re here to find out.”

* * *

As Narcissa rang the doorbell, she said to her son, “Draco, I expect you to be on your best behaviour.”

“Of course, Mummy,” Draco replied automatically. 

“...Just a second!” Came a voice from inside the apartment. Then, a quieter but nonetheless prosaic “Oh _fuck!”_ accompanied the sound of a loud bang. “Padfoot, _no!”_ the voice shouted, getting closer. “You stupid, fucking piece of utter shit, I fucking told you—” there was the sound of a muffled thud and more swearing. “Hang on, out there!” The voice yelled, sounding incredibly strained. More sounds, littered with barking. Draco looked at the door in distaste—he didn’t like dogs. The door swung open. “Sorry about that,” said the voice. Draco got a brief glance of mousy curls and freckles, “My dog’s a— Cissa!” The man’s eyes widened, and Draco saw the loveliest glimpse of amber in the second before the man moved forward and embraced his mother.

Draco noticed—with mild interest—that the man was really very tall. And then, Draco noticed—with extreme surprise—that his mother was hugging the man back.

“It’s good to see you, Remus,” she murmured. 

Draco came to a horrible, dawning realisation. “Mummy,” he said, his voice shaking, “You’re having an affair.”

The dog inside the apartment growled.

Draco felt tears begin to gather in his eyes, “You’re having an affair with a strange tall man who has an ugly black dog and now I’m going to have to live with an ugly black dog because _you’re_ going to live with an ugly black dog and I hate dogs and Pansy’s a dog now and Pansy is a little bit annoying and I really don’t like her nose but I do like her sometimes except that doesn’t matter because you’re engaging in _infidelity!”_ Draco wailed, loudly.

The tall man disengaged himself from Draco’s mother and looked down at Draco. If Draco’s face wasn’t covered in a rather offensive agglomeration of bodily fluids, he might have noticed that the man looked extremely surprised. As it was, all Draco noticed, through the warping effect of his tears, was that the tall man was looming over him.

“I don’t want a new father!” Draco sobbed, “This man is too tall and his dog is too ugly and I don’t want to live with that dog!”

Narcissa crossed her arms in front of her chest and raised an eyebrow, “You could always stay with your father.”

“You’re abandoning me!” Draco howled, his chest heaving, “You’re abandoning your only child even though I love you more than Father and even though I’m beautiful and well-mannered and I— _I eat all my carrots, Mummy!”_ Draco flung himself down on the floor. Pansy whimpered and licked his face. “And Pansy keeps licking my face and oh my god that’s so unhygienic I’m going to throw up and _everything is horrid!”_ Draco took a large, shuddering gasp and threw himself, face down, on the floor.

“Jesus.” Draco heard the tall man mutter.

“Remus,” said Narcissa, dryly, “Meet Draco—the last time you saw him he was in diapers.” Narcissa pinched the bridge of her nose, “He is the light of my life and my only child. He is beautiful and sometimes well-mannered and he is especially good at pretending to eat his carrots and later throwing them out of his bedroom window. The little girl on all fours beside him is his only friend, Pansy.” Narcissa looked at Pansy. She continued, in monotone, “Currently, Pansy believes that she is a dog. As you may be able to tell, there has been a bit of an incident.”

“Jesus,” The tall man repeated, laughing a little.

“Draco.” Narcissa called. “Are you quite done.”

Draco didn’t respond. Pansy dug her pig-nose under Draco’s shirt.

Narcissa said: “I wonder how many germs are on the floor that you’re currently lying on.”

And Draco jumped up. He looked at his mother sorrowfully. She was smiling. Draco felt a chill go down his spine.

“Cissa,” the tall man said, placing his hand on her shoulder, “He’s scared and tired.” Narcissa’s smile remained as icy as ever, the tall man continued, “And he just admitted to loving you more than Lucius.”

Narcissa’s face melted a fraction. She inhaled a lungful of air. “There was absolutely no need to shout. That was a very appalling way to behave.” She said to Draco, her voice hard, “But I still love you. You must promise that you won’t ever behave this way again.” Narcissa held out her left hand, her pinky extended.

Draco pouted. After a while, he nodded and extended his own pinky, curling it around his mum’s.

Narcissa nodded back at Draco. Her eyes softened another fraction and she leant down to kiss Draco on the cheek, wiping his tears away with the sleeve of her shirt.

“Mummy’s not having an affair.” She said.

Draco exhaled a breath of relief. _Thank god._ That tall man’s dog was the ugliest, most abhorrent thing Draco had ever seen.

“It’s lovely to meet you, Draco. And you too, Pansy.” The tall man smiled, kneeling on the floor so that his face was level with Draco’s. He patted Pansy’s head. Pansy yipped and nuzzled into the touch. Draco noticed that the tall man had a thin scar across his nose, and another interrupting his left eyebrow. “My name is Remus.” he said, “Cissa—your mum—is like a sister to me.” 

Draco corrected his initial impression of Remus’s hair. It wasn’t mousy at all, the curls were outlined with burnished gold. Remus held out a hand for Draco to shake. Draco sniffed and complied. Feeling a tad flustered, Draco observed that Remus had dimples. Then, Remus stood up and held the door to his apartment open, gesturing inwards and giving Draco, Narcissa and Pansy a cue to enter. 

“Beauty before freckles.” Remus grinned.

* * *

“...And that brings us back to the present.” Narcissa finished, leaning back on Remus’s sofa and stroking Pansy’s head in her lap. 

While his mum and Remus were involved in the retelling of the day’s events, Draco sat sipping his chocolate milk and eyeing Remus’s disdainful black dog. It was very large. Draco swore it was staring back at Draco with equally contemptuous eyes. There was something very off about that dog. It was unbelievably creepy. Draco sipped his chocolate milk and narrowed his eyes. The dog— _'_ _Padfoot,’_ Remus had introduced—bared his teeth.

“Here’s your tea, Cissa.” Remus said, passing Narcissa a cup filled with dark brown liquid, and then placing the tray—which Draco noticed held two tea cups—on the coffee table.

Draco was just beginning to open his mouth to explain that he didn’t want tea and much preferred his chocolate milk when Remus sat next to Narcissa and said, “What a day,” with a sympathetic smile. _Dimples,_ thought Draco—the speech on his tongue evaporating.

Narcissa sighed. “And to top it all off, Lucius is on a fucking business trip— _Draco,_ you did not hear that.” Narcissa narrowed her eyes at Draco.

Draco grinned, “Hear what?”

Remus looked between them, “It’s like looking at a mini-you,” he said, to Narcissa.

“He is my blessing and my curse.” Narcissa replied.

Draco grinned wider. His mother loved him very much.

“Anyway—I think Draco has two powers,” Narcissa continued to Remus.

“It’s not impossible.” Remus replied, taking a sip out of his own tea cup. 

“It’s uncommon.” Narcissa returned.

“But not impossible. I have two powers.”

“One of them is acquired. You were born with one.” 

Remus shrugged, “James and Lily’s son has two powers.”

Narcissa frowned. After a while she said, carefully, “I don’t—know the nature of Draco’s new power.” 

“It sounds novel.” Remus agreed.

Narcissa looked down at her lap, at Pansy’s sleeping face. “I fear that its effects are permanent.”

Remus patted her hand consolingly, “Nothing’s ever permanent, Cissa.”

“We can only hope,” Narcissa sighed. “Do you mind analysing Draco?”

“You never have to ask,” Remus said. He turned to face Draco, and moved to create space in between him and Narcissa.

“Come here, darling.” Narcissa said.

Draco stood and sat in the new space between Remus and his mum.

“Remus is going to use his powers on you,” Narcissa clarified. “It won’t hurt, but it will feel a bit strange.” Narcissa explained, “We’re doing this so that we know what exactly you did to Pansy and how exactly we can reverse it. Is that okay?”

Draco nodded. He turned to Remus. “You may begin.”

Remus laughed softly—“Why, thank you.”—and took hold of Draco’s hands, closing his eyes.

A faint light began to emanate from their joint hands and Draco suddenly felt very odd indeed. As if his consciousness had expanded to encompass more than simply his body. As if all his senses were stimulated at the same time. As if he was hollow, but not _hollow_ exactly, more like—he didn’t have a vessel. And just as soon as it began, it ended.

Remus opened his eyes. He looked at Draco with an indecipherable expression. “Oh.” he mumbled, beginning to frown as he reached out to ruffle Draco’s hair.

Draco was a bit freaked out by Remus’s reaction. That being said, Draco was also _really_ comfortable with Remus’s hand on his head. Draco realised, vaguely, that Remus was really rather handsome, and that he had the kindest, warmest eyes Draco had ever seen. Draco began to blush—his brain refusing to feel more than one emotion at the same time.

“Remus.” Said Narcissa, stricken, pale faced, “What is it?”

Remus looked at Narcissa. “Your speculation was right. He does have two powers.” Remus frowned, “One of them allows him to move objects with his thoughts, and the other,” Remus hesitated, “the other allows him to grasp someone’s mind and bend it to his will.”

Draco gaped at Remus. “That,” he breathed, “Is _awesome.”_

“Shut up Draco.” Narcissa looked even paler than before. Muttering, she repeated, “shut up, shut up.” She asked Remus, “Mind control?” 

Remus shook his head, “Nothing that concrete. It’s closer to a glamour power, kind of. Well, not really, I guess. Maybe something like hypnotism? Without the whole _‘look into my eyes,’_ thing.” Remus took a sip of his tea, “He can’t control anyone’s thoughts or actions, but he can command them to behave in a certain way. How exactly they fulfill his command is up to them.”

Narcissa took a deep breath. “And the caveats?”

“Aside from the general ones common to powers such as this, he has to maintain skin-to-skin contact when he’s commanding the person,” Narcissa winced. Draco rather thought she was overreacting. This power sounded brilliant to him. “And anyone with a particularly strong mind will be able to overturn the command. In the same way, the power might not work at all on some people. That being said, the extent of this power is indefinite.”

Draco beamed. He was so caught up in the heady feeling that came with being awesome, that he didn’t notice Narcissa wince and Remus offer her a consoling hand squeeze.

After a short while, Narcissa asked, “He can rescind his commands?”

Remus nodded, “From what I’ve seen, yes. He’ll have to learn how to control his power, though.” 

Narcissa nodded briskly. “Did you hear that, Draco?”

“Yes, Mummy,” Draco replied.

Narcissa shook Pansy awake, “Let's see you turn Pansy back into a human again,”

Pansy awoke bleary-eyed and yipped lightly when she saw Narcissa’s face. When she felt Draco’s hands on her arm she turned and barked loudly, jumping at Draco and attempting to lick his face. Draco held her shoulders resolutely away from his body.

“Pansy, you are a human.” He said, staring deeply into her eyes.

Pansy blinked. And then she barked and licked Draco’s arm.

“Ewwwwwwww, Pansy! Stop it!” Draco cried.

“Try again.” Narcissa said.

“Pansy,” Draco said, imperiously, _“You are a human.”_

Pansy barked in glee.

“Mummy, it’s not working.” Draco observed, beginning to freak out just a little bit.

“Close your eyes and try focusing on your power-core,” Remus advised.

“What,” Draco said.

“Draco.” clipped Narcissa.

“Pardon me.” Draco amended, in monotone. “What are you on about.”

Remus laughed, “Okay, uh, pass me that tin of biscuits on the table using your powers.”

Draco looked at Remus incredulously but did as he asked.

“Did you feel something shift inside of you when you did that?” Remus asked.

“No.” Draco replied. Remus was lucky he was pretty.

“Right, okay, focus on moving this tin of biscuits back to the table using your mind. Don’t think about anything else.”

“Remus.” Draco said, in awe, “What is wrong with you.”

The ugly black dog snarled. 

_“Draco.”_ Narcissa hissed.

“What? We’re in the middle of a crisis and he wants me to move around biscuits.” Draco rolled his eyes.

Remus laughed, a bit startled, “Jesus, you really are just like your mum.”

 _“Remus.”_ Narcissa grit out.

“What?” Draco demanded, affronted by the idea that his mother found offence in being compared to him.

Remus laughed again. It was a nice sound.

“I’m asking you to do this so that you can identify your power-core,” Remus explained, smiling fondly, “it’ll help you control your powers better so that you can turn poor Pansy back into a human.” 

Draco rather liked Remus smiling fondly at him. It occurred to Draco, suddenly, that he probably had a crush on Remus.

“How old are you.” Draco asked, eyeing Remus.

The ugly black dog barked loudly, all of a sudden greatly agitated. 

“Draco.” Narcissa said, calmly. (This meant that Draco was in insurmountable amounts of trouble.)

“God, okay, no need to be dramatic,” Draco said, and then upon seeing the look his mother shot him, added rapidly, “Mother. My lovely mother. Apologies. I am distraught.”

Without further preamble—and also because Narcissa’s glower was beginning to give him goosebumps—Draco took a deep breath and stared intensely at the biscuit tin in Remus’s hands. This time, as he was moving it back to the table, he felt something stir, indistinctly, in his chest.

“Yes, that’s it.” Remus encouraged. Draco noticed that he’d subconsciously moved his hand to cover the feeling in his chest. 

Focusing on the stirring, Draco made the biscuit tin do loops in the air. He accidentally on purpose hit the ugly black dog on the head. The ugly black dog growled loudly, the hair on its neck rising.

“I think I’ve got it.” Draco announced, putting the biscuit tin back on the table and ignoring the stupid mutt’s nonsensical noises.

“Just get on with it, Draco.” Narcissa sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. She did that a lot when she spent extended periods of time alone with Draco.

“Pansy.” Draco commanded, extending his palm face up towards her, “Hand.” Pansy barked cheerfully and put her right hand in Draco’s extended palm. Draco looked at Pansy and—focusing on the area where he’d felt the fluttering in his chest—said, _“You are a human.”_

For a second, Pansy was still. And then she sneezed in Draco’s face.

 _“Pansy!”_ Draco shrieked, feeling something inside him die.

Pansy barked and licked Draco’s cheek.

 _“Ewwwwwwwwwwwww!!!!!!!”_ Draco cried, and then he realised, “Pansy.” He repeated, firmly, feeling disgusting but pretending that everything was right in the world, _“You are a human.”_

Pansy barked. Narcissa cussed in French.

“You.” Draco hollered, “Are a human. You are a human, you are a human.” Draco closed his eyes and focused on a vague fluttering in his chest, as if from below a sheet of ice. _“Pansy Prudence Parkinson, you are a human, you are not a dog.”_ The fluttering grew stronger, Draco opened his eyes. “Pansy,” he said, staring into her eyes, “You are a human.”

There was a tense moment of silence. Pansy opened her mouth. Draco feared she would bark.

But then: “Draco?”

“Pansy!” Draco exclaimed, relief flooding through him.

“Wh— Where are we?” Pansy stuttered, looking around with wide eyes.

“We’re in Remus’s house.” Draco said, all of a sudden hit with a strong wave of exhaustion.

“Wha— Who’s Remus?” Pansy asked, frightened, looking like she was about to cry.

“Remus is the tall man sitting next to me. We came to him because I accidentally hypnotised you." Words spilt out of Draco's mouth like water, "You've just spent the last six hours believing that you're a dog. You licked my face multiple times and it was very disgusting. You also tried to pee in Mummy’s flower patch, but I told you ‘No’ so you didn’t. Oh, by the way, I have superpowers and can move things with my mind and also apparently hypnotise people. Also, I think I have a crush on Remus, so I can’t play house with you anymore.”

Pansy burst into tears. Narcissa slapped her forehead. People were so dramatic sometimes, honestly.

The ugly black dog barked loudly several times and jumped into Remus’s lap. Remus's eyebrows shot up.

“I, uh— _down,_ Padfoot—thank you, Draco, but I’m afraid I’m too old for you.” Remus said, eventually.

“How old are you?” Draco asked, undeterred.

“Er, twenty-seven,” Remus replied, glancing at Narcissa and looking even more confused than before.

“A twenty year age gap...” Draco thought for a while. “We’ll have to work through our differences but I have faith that we’ll get through them.”

“I’m sorry, Remus.” Narcissa said, utterly defeated, cradling a sobbing Pansy in her lap. 

Remus took a deep breath. “I’m flattered Draco, but there’s just—Padfoot, _no—_ it’s just—Padfoot, _Padfoot! Sirius!—_ it’s not _you,_ it’s just that you’re a little baby and that is so very wrong on so many different levels—”

“We’ll wait until I’m eighteen to pursue our relationship, of course.” Draco stated, simply.

“I’ll be ancient by then! Imagine the wrinkles!” Remus tried.

“It’s okay, I think you’re very handsome and I think that age will just make you more refined.” Draco said.

Remus looked at him, speechless. “That—wow.” 

Draco took that as a good sign. He grinned. “By then, your ugly dog will be dead as well. It’s perfect.”

Remus began to laugh helplessly, “Oh my god.”

“I make you laugh. This is a good sign.” Draco announced.

“Look—No,” Remus tried again, “Okay, uhm, how do I say this—Sirius, _stop it._ He’s a child _—_ uh, I’m in a relationship right now.”

“You’ll break up by the time I’m eighteen.” Draco said, with conviction.

“Well,” Remus began, carefully, “We’re engaged.” Then, blushing, in an incredibly soft voice, “And I love him very, very much.” Remus stroked Padfoot’s head and smiled apologetically at Draco, “I’m sorry Draco, but I can’t reciprocate your feelings. He's the love of my life. You'll find the love of your life someday, too.”

Draco crossed his arms. “You’re in the honeymoon phase right now. It won’t last.”

Remus sighed, “Draco—” Remus’s ugly dog made a move to bite Draco, “Sirius, for fu— god’s sake.”

Draco eyed the dog contemptuously. “Your dog is very ugly.”

The dog bristled, its standing hair giving the appearance that it had just grown—except, wait—it _had_ just grown— _Oh my god,_ thought Draco, in horror, _It’s growing—_ and not just growing, it was changing shape—losing hair—elongating—until, staring contemptuously down at Draco, still on Remus’s lap, sat a black haired man. “Woof.” He said.

Draco shrieked. “It’s a _vagabond!”_

“Aaah.” mimicked the man-dog, unkindly, “It’s a brat.”

“Mummy! _Mummy!”_ Draco squawked, moving backwards, his heart on his tongue, “Remus’s ugly dog turned into an even uglier scoundrel!”

“I see the brat is also blind.” the man-dog commented.

“Did you really have to, Sirius.” Remus asked—Draco noted with glee—disapprovingly.

“He was trying to steal you away from me, so _yes,_ Moony, I had to.”

Several very shocking truths hit Draco on the head. “You chose a _dog_ over _me?!”_

Remus ran a hand over his face. “Why is this happening.” 

Narcissa eyed the man-dog coolly, “Sirius.”

The man-dog eyed her back, and then said, with a smirk, “Wotcher, Cousin.”

Draco stilled. “No.”

The man-dog turned his smirk on Draco, “It’s nice to meet you, Nephew.”

Draco repeated. _“No.”_

“Unfortunately,” sighed Narcissa, “Yes.”

“He has tattoos,” hushed Draco, still in denial, “and _piercings.”_

“Well, you look like a ferret.” The man-dog remarked. “Genetics makes fools of us all.”

Draco gaped at the man-dog. The man-dog narrowed his eyes back. 

“Sirius.” said Remus, “He’s a _child.”_

“You’re a fool, Remus. He has the devil in his eyes.”

Draco’s mouth fell open.

Narcissa sighed, “Grow up, Sirius.”

“Shut up, Cissa.” The man-dog said, “You knew this would happen.”

Narcissa began to massage her temples. “Get out.”

The man-dog scoffed. “Fuck you.”

“Sirius.” Remus said, gently.

The man-dog pouted and got off the sofa. Draco stared at him.

“Take Draco and Pansy with you.” Narcissa said. Draco looked at her, trying to convey how extremely betrayed he felt.

“Fuck you.” repeated the man-dog.

“Sirius.” Remus said, softly.

The man-dog huffed and picked up Pansy—still sniffling and in shock—in his arms. He held out a hand for Draco to hold.

Draco looked at it incredulously. “Have you ever washed your hands.”

The man-dog grabbed Draco and pulled him up. “Nope.”

Draco screamed. 

* * *

They ate ice-cream on the side-walk, and Sirius turned out to be a little bit okay. Obviously, he was still Draco’s rival in love. But he was okay, a little bit.

“I’m not calling you Uncle.” Draco announced, licking his strawberry ice cream.

“Thank fuck.” Sirius responded.

Pansy giggled, “That’s rude, Sirius.”

“What’s rude? The ‘Fuck’? Or the ‘Thank’? I think you’re talking about the ‘Thank’.”

Pansy laughed. “No, silly, I’m talking about the F-word.”

“Fatalism.” Sirius nodded.

Draco scowled at Sirius. “Why does Remus even like you.”

Sirius preened. “I’m perfect.”

“That is very obviously not true.” Draco said. Pansy nodded.

“Shut up, you tiny dragon. I’m perfect _for him._ And I love him. So there. You just got your heart broken. It sucks to suck.” 

Draco moped into his ice cream.

* * *

When Sirius finally deemed enough time had passed, he brought them back upstairs. They stood outside the door while Sirius fumbled around for his keys.

From inside, Draco heard the sound of a quiet sob. _“I wanted him to have a normal life.”_

And then a soft, _“I know.”_

_“He can’t now. He can’t—”_

Sirius knocked a few times to announce his presence before beginning to unlock the door. The voices inside hushed. Sirius looked down at Draco and Pansy and put a finger to his lips.

“It’s best sometimes to pretend that you haven’t heard anything.” He said, simply. 

So that’s what Draco did. For the life of him, though, Draco couldn’t understand the appeal of _normal._ Why choose normal, when you could have remarkable instead? Why settle for small, when you could go big?

And so, Draco declared, as he burst into the apartment, “I’m going to take over the world one day—”

Sirius muttered behind him, “God help us all.”

“—and then I’m going to propose to Remus.” Draco continued.

Sirius’s jaw fell open. _“What did you just say, you little—”_

* * *

Draco hadn’t understood what it had meant, back then. World domination, that is. It had been a juvenile desire, fuelled partly by the emotions of his first love.

But as the feelings of a crush had melted into simple adoration, the ambition had persisted. Because that’s simply who Draco was. He was meant for greatness, and he knew it.

And as he grew, as he became increasingly more aware of the political intricacies of the world around him, as he found himself irritated, endlessly, by aimless, weak and selfish politicians, he began to make plans.

But to carry out the plans that he wanted to carry out, he needed power. Sheer will couldn’t end wars. One needed political leverage, one needed the ability to make a change.

And as such came to be his life as a super-bodied individual. Emphasis on ‘super-bodied individual’, _not_ ‘super-villain’ (as the media was so opt to call him). Honestly, it had started out innocent enough. Well, innocent enough by Draco’s standards, so really, it was only a little bit illegal. And things were going great. His plan was proceeding seamlessly.

And then came Golden-Boy, with his embarrassingly sanctimonious nick-name and his embarrassingly tight pants and his embarrassingly sexy arse. His stupid, stupid obsession with _‘the law’_ and _‘the right thing’_ and _‘seriously, don’t make me freeze you,’_ and all of a sudden, Draco found his plans foiled time and time again. And then time and time again, once more. It was extremely excessive. Like, seriously excessive. _What the fuck is up with this dude._

Draco Lucius Abraxas Leroy Malfoy was an eighteen year old boy with everything going right for him. Everything, that is, excluding his stupid, fucking superhero nemesis. And then, because of-fucking-course, his stupid-fucking-superhero-nemesis turned out to be the only person capable of stopping that idiot Moldy-Wart or whatever—an idiot who had decided, in a burst of pure malevolence, to carry out his super-idiot plan during the _mock season._ Like, _who the fuck does that?!_ Draco had _exams to ace._ He had _universities to get into._ He had _rigorous study timetables to follow._ And nothing—not even his deep disdain for Golden-Boy’s obsession with morality and tight pants—could get between Draco and his exams. Suffice to say, Moldy-Wart was going down. Draco just had to suffer through a tentative partnership with Golden-Boy to make it happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhh okay, this is my first non-magic AU. It feels so strange to write about a Muggle Draco...  
> Oh, also—the setting is purely fictional. I really don't know enough about the intricacies of British geography, and this just makes my life that much easier. So for the sake of my convenience, let's all imagine that this fic is set in someplace, somewhere, in Britain, in an alternate universe.


	2. How Draco Grew A Little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, this is the longest chapter I've ever written. I had writer's block for, like, two months and then all of a sudden the words jUST WOULDN'T STOP COMING OUT.
> 
> **This is a work of fiction and any similarities to persons living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental**
> 
> **This work is not attempting to criticise any form of political belief disregarding those that are derogatory and result in the suffering of others**

Draco had embraced his super-person lifestyle at fifteen years old. Although perhaps ‘embraced’ was the wrong word to use. It sounded far too gentle for what had been a strange and trying week.

Fifteen was a weird age to be. It was made even weirder by being in year five. The looming inevitable of GCSEs made burgeoning teenage hormones all that more terrifying. And then, on top of all that, there were ever-changing social dynamics and extracurriculars to care for as well.

Draco was on the football team. That he’d made the B team instead of the A had been a point of much contention with his father. By the age of fifteen, Draco had learnt to accept that his father and him just couldn’t see eye-to-eye on most matters. Namely, the fact that Draco was _not,_ actually, perfect, and that he was, instead, a normal teenage boy who had other, more important things to do in life than play football. They also seemed to disagree on the idea that Draco might be, in his father’s words, _‘homosexual,’_ and in Draco’s words, _‘outrageously gay or maybe bisexual, or maybe pan, I haven’t yet decided and probably never will because feeling obligated to label yourself is stupid’._

What there was to disagree about Draco being gay, Draco hadn’t a clue. It was like disagreeing about Draco being blond. When he voiced this thought, his father turned such a startling shade of purple that both Draco and his mum were certain he’d had an aneurysm of some sort. After that, his father said some choice words that left Draco, quite uncharacteristically, speechless. At which point, his mum broke her silence and said a few choice words of her own, and with so much vitriol that Draco felt almost sorry for the tears he saw collecting in his father’s eyes.

Regardless of his seeming apathy towards football at home, however, Draco did actually take it a little seriously. It wasn’t that he had any particular love for the sport—although it was fun sometimes—it was more that Harry Potter had made the A team. And not just the Under Sixteens A team, no, of course not. Harry James Potter—with his disaster hair, idiot glasses, and endless stream of good fortune—had made the Under _E_ _ighteens_ A team. Which was honestly preposterous, first of all, because it was against the inter-school tournament rules, second of all, because he wasn’t even _that_ good, and third of all, because the sight of Potter’s twig legs in football shorts was enough to cause psychological harm and they all went to an institution full of impressionable young children! 

Anyway, Draco was also a prefect. At first he’d been ecstatic— _‘The POWER!’—_ but then he’d very quickly realised that the perfunctory duties didn’t actually grant him any power at all. In fact, being a prefect actually took away a lot of Draco’s power, in all the ways that were genuinely important. It was a pedantic job, but even worse, it made it seem as if Draco himself was pedantic. (Draco _was_ actually pretty pedantic, but that was beside the point—he made it his life goal to hide things like that from the general public.) So Draco’s reputation amongst the grade was at an all time low. This meant that as a leader—which was the role he’d been given, as prefect—he had absolutely no power at all. He was simply a puppet to be used by the teachers.

With this came several realisations. The most important one being that Draco rather hated leadership roles, and that if he wanted _tangible_ power in the future, he’d have to stay away from the scrutiny of the public eye. The best way to go about it would be to join that small group of politicians who controlled the country’s figureheads, if that group existed. If being the operative word. Ideally, Draco would have joined the illuminati. But, whatever.

So, at age fifteen, Draco was a prefect, and half the student body couldn’t stand him. In the meanwhile, Potter was the star of the football team and every idiot in their year was obsessed with him. It was an unfortunate reality that most everyone in their year was an idiot. 

While Draco was running around in between his prefect duties, chess club meet-ups, debate team competitions, and football training, Potter was traipsing the hallway, winning love and adoration by simply existing. While Draco was freaking the fuck out because he regularly had wet dreams about _Blaise_ and that was a big no-no because Blaise was _Blaise,_ Potter was snogging the girl he’d coerced into dating him in the hallways. And the girl—Cho Chang—was the year above them. Draco hadn’t even had his first kiss yet, because Blaise was _Blaise_ and that was in no ways okay. Also, Draco’s fine, aristocratic skin was so very fine that he had _acne._ He had _acne!_ While Potter’s half-asian skin was perfectly smooth! 

Draco and Potter’s rivalry was an old thing, which could be traced back to the first hour of the first day of first year. When Draco had been alone, however, he’d always been able to admit that it was something mildly juvenile. But now, at age fifteen? Draco _hated_ Potter. Just the sight of him was enough to set Draco’s blood on fire. It was the kind of hatred that consumed thought. It existed even when Draco was alone. Everything that went wrong in the universe was Potter’s fault. 

A bird shat on Draco’s head? _Fuck you, Potter._

Blaise and Pansy started dating? _Fuck yourself in the arse with a cactus, Potter. Oh, and don’t use lubricant._

Draco had an allergic reaction to his new acne face-wash and consequently, his head looked like a penis and his mum wouldn’t let him take a day off school? _Go chew some glass, regurgitate it, and then stick the shards up your urethra, Potter. Do this while simultaneously tap dancing._

Potter was, quite literally, the bane of Draco’s existence. Fifteen was a horrible age to be, and Potter made it a thousand times worse. 

A negative altercation between them was the beginning of Draco’s strange and trying week.

* * *

It had been an unbearably sunny afternoon, and despite the layers of sunscreen Draco had lathered on, he could feel his gorgeous porcelain skin turning lobster red. Already, he was in a bad mood. _Fuck you, Potter, you insufferable toad._

And to make matters worse, Potty was actually on the other side of the field, playing a practice game with the Under-Sixteens A team for _fun_ because he was _lame._ Draco grit his teeth as he repeated the harsh drills the B team were being tortured into doing. This turned out to be a bad idea, mostly because Draco’s lungs felt like they were about to give out, and gritting his teeth made him feel like he was going to die of suffocation. 

When the coach blew the final whistle, everyone around Draco collapsed on the field. Draco had dignity, so he forced himself to get into a casual sitting position before insouciantly laying on his back.

“You’re _—_ such a— _twat,”_ Theo huffed, from beside Draco.

Theo could choke on his own spit—Draco had an image to maintain. Draco conveyed this sentiment through exhausted facial expressions. 

Maybe ten minutes later, Coach Blue called them over. Draco felt personally affronted by this command. Blue had definitely gone overboard with the drills. Cursing the universe but mostly Potter in his mind, Draco ignored his body’s screaming protests and pushed himself up.

“To finish off training,” _—please don’t say laps please don’t say laps—_ “we’re going to play a quick game with the A team.”

 _Well fuck,_ thought Draco. _Just ask us to eat our own shit, why don’t you._

Draco really didn’t understand why this was happening to him. And of all the days, _Potter_ had to be here today. _Shit._ And now the A team—plus Potter—were walking over. Great. Fantastic. Wow, Potter’s hair. How fucking disgusting. God, and those twig legs.

“My eyes,” whispered Draco, “They _burn.”_

Theo snickered and then eyed Draco’s face, “They’re not the only things burning.”

“Don’t remind me.” Draco lamented. “My beautiful, beautiful skin.”

Theo grinned. Theo was kind of cute when he was grinning. Not as cute as Blaise, of course, but no-one was at Blaise’s level. The Zabinis were a superior species. Draco could appreciate that, even if the whole Blaise thing was the biggest _no_ to have ever _noed._

Anyway, Theo also had soft-looking hair. It was nice to know that even on-the-brink-of-death-exhaustion wasn’t enough to curb Draco’s perpetual horniness.

It was also nice to know that being within ten metres of Potter was enough to completely obliterate said horniness.

Potter stood in between his nameless, faceless cronies. If there was one thing Draco hated even more than Potter’s twig legs, it was Potter wearing contacts. And right now—as he always did when he was wearing his football kit—he was wearing contacts. It made it impossible to hold eye-contact with him. One look at his face and all Draco could see was green, green, guileless green, except ahahhahahahhahahhaha no, that’s not something that happened with Potty, of all people. Potter wasn’t innocent in any sense of the word. Potter was a stone-cold bitch. A stone cold-bitch whose eyes were his only—and Draco meant **_only_** _—_ redeeming feature. It was like finding three pounds in a pile of trash. By comparison with its surroundings, the value of the three pounds went up in the mind of the observer. Or so Draco convinced himself, for the sake of his sanity.

“Potter should always wear glasses.” muttered Draco.

Theo looked at him, “You talk too much, Draco.”

Draco schooled his gape. “What the fuck, you wanker—”

“Listen up,” started Hooch, the A team’s coach, “This is a great opportunity for both teams,”—this was her attempt at being magnanimous—“I expect fair-play—I’m looking at you, Malfoy.”

Draco smiled at her charmingly.

Hooch narrowed her eyes, “I expect fair-play, Malfoy, _got it?”_

Draco bat his eyelashes at her, “Of course,”

“That wasn’t a yes.” 

“If only everyone here were as intelligent as you, Coach Hooch,” Draco returned.

_“Malfoy—”_

“Come off it, Malfoy.” said Potter, that sanctimonious arse, because something in him physically died if he didn’t force himself into every conversation, ever. 

Draco felt himself bristle. He forced himself to speak calmly. “I don’t think this is all that fair to begin with. The B team are exhausted. The A team look fresh. It’s obvious who’s going to win even before we begin.” It was obvious either way, but still.

Potter scowled. “The A team’s exhausted too—”

“Playing mini-games and drinking gatorade. Wow, so exhausting.” Draco drawled.

Potter’s nostrils flared. Draco felt a throb of pleasure.

“It’s your own fault if you’ve got no stamina.”

Draco felt a muscle in his jaw twitch, “You’re right.” he forced himself to say, “Just like it’s your own fault if you’re stupid enough to be fooled while we’re playing.”

Potter crossed his arms, “You’re just a cheater, Malfoy. Admit it.”

“Suck my dick, Potter.”

“Scared to admit it, Malfoy?”

“Scared? Me?” Draco laughed derisively, “I’m not the one itching to play a game I know I’m going to win.”

“No shit we’re going to win.” 

Draco tilted his head, “Is it fun fighting a weakened opponent?”

Potter flushed. _Bingo._ “That’s not—”

“You heard it, lads,” Draco said to everyone, then lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “Saint Potter’s not that saintly after all.”

Potter took a furious step forward. Draco imperceptibly unlocked his knees.

 _“Potter.”_ snapped Hooch “Calm down.” she turned to Draco. “Malfoy. Stop instigating him.”

“But he’s so _cute.”_ Draco snarled, in falsetto.

Potter’s flush darkened and he took another step forward. 

_“Malfoy.”_ Hooch grit out. 

Draco rolled his eyes and turned away, his blood pounding in his ears. 

“Get a ball. We’re starting soon.” she continued.

Draco stared at her. Had she listened to even a word of what he’d just said? She was meant to look out for _all_ of them, not just those that she liked. Draco shot Theo an incredulous look.

“Sorry, Coach,” began Theo, “We’re all knackered—”

“Stop complaining, Nott—come on! Move it!” 

Draco looked around at the other members of his team—all wearing equally despondent expressions. Being second sucked most when you were constantly reminded that you weren’t good enough to be first. This was going to take a toll on everyone’s morale. Draco looked back at Hooch. It was clear to Draco that she was crazy. He couldn’t attempt civil conversation. 

And there stood Potter, gloating in the midst of the other A team boys. So used to always getting his fucking way. So used to everything in his perfect life always going right. Draco hated him so much.

“Whoever gets the ball first, pass to me,” Draco said to his team, before the game began. “Trust me.” His team gave him a plethora of dubious looks but there were no vocalisations of dissent, so Draco took that as a win.

Draco’s team won the pre-game stone-paper-scissors, so it was decided they would start with the ball. Hooch blew the whistle, and as Draco observed every member of his team resign themselves to their fate, the game began.

Potter, predictably, lingered around Draco in a very non-subtle attempt to mark him. Draco nodded imperceptibly to Chambers before gathering all his remaining energy and sprinting forward. Chambers kicked the ball over. 

Once he had securely received, Draco dribbled the ball lazily from side to side. The surrounding players looked at him in confusion. As expected, Potter was the first to react—he never did question Draco’s motives before responding to Draco’s actions. This trait of his was so easily manipulated. Draco quite adored this idiot trait of Potter’s. It was the only thing about Potter that Draco had even remotely positive feelings about.

Potter sprinted towards Draco, aiming, doubtlessly, to steal the ball. Draco looked at Potter’s focused expression and in one seamless move, hooked his foot under the ball and kicked it straight at Potter’s approaching face. With a loud bang, Potter’s head snapped backwards and he fell to the grass. 

“Oops.” Draco said, into the resulting silence.

Some fourth year gaped at Draco. Draco feigned ignorance and admired his cuticles.

Hooch blew the whistle. “Time out.” she said, in a faint voice. 

_Mission accomplished,_ Draco grinned at his teammates.

 _“Malfoy.”_ snapped Hooch, jogging towards Potter’s still form, “Come here.” 

Draco rolled his eyes and walked slowly towards Potter’s body. God, he was so weak. It was just a ball. What a loser.

“He might have a concussion, Malfoy.” Hooch said sharply, digging a small torch out of her pocket and kneeling down.

Draco kicked Potter lightly with the toe of his foot. “I think he’d need a brain for that.”

Hooch gave Draco a condemning look. She touched Potter’s shoulder. “Potter? Harry—can you hear me?”

Potter remained still on the grass, his chest barely moving. There was blood leaking out of his nose.

Hooch paled, “Harry, open your eyes.” She called to the people on the stands, “Call Madame Pomfrey from the clinic!”

Draco crouched down next to Potter’s face, waving a hand over his closed lids.

“Harry—”

“He’s faking it.” Draco said, calmly.

Hooch looked at Draco incredulously, “How can you—”

And because Draco was always right, always, Potter sprang up and head-butted Draco. Unfortunately, Draco had been a bit preoccupied trying to calm Hooch down (before she gave him indefinite detention for incapacitating her star player) so he wasn’t as prepared as he would have been otherwise. Consequently, Draco got a harsh face-full of Potter’s stone forehead. Frankly, it hurt like a bitch.

“I _told you so.”_ Draco hissed as he lunged at Potter. 

By the time Pomfrey arrived, her services were very much required. Unfortunately, Pomfrey arrived at the same time as McGonagall did. And so, instead of having his wounds licked by an acerbic tongue, Draco found himself forcefully transported to the deputy headmaster’s office.

* * *

“He started it.” said Potter, tilting his head backwards. 

McGonagall pursed her lips and looked at Draco. “Of that I have no doubt.”

McGonagall was, much like most everybody, biased towards Potter. Draco felt anger building in his chest. He swallowed it down as he stared into beady eyes.

“I didn’t start it.” Draco managed to say. “And as you can see, I’ve come out of it in a worse state than Potter.” This was regrettably true. Potter was a ball of energy. Potter was also extremely thin. His elbows were weapons.

McGonagall eyed Draco over her glasses. “I regret to inform you that your lack of fighting prowess doesn’t make you any less culpable.” 

Draco smiled at her, all teeth, “I’m not denying culpability. I’m saying I didn’t start it.”

“He’s lying.” said Potter, “He did.” 

Draco grit his teeth and took a deep breath. His mum would kill him if he started anything in McGonagall’s office. 

“I’d prefer if I could have this conversation with you alone.” Draco began, feigning cordiality as hard as he ever had in his fifteen years of life. “Could you kick Potter out of the office, Professor?”

“No.”

Draco pursed his lips. “Could you gently escort Potter out of the office, Professor.”

McGonagall’s lips twitched. “No.”

Potter smiled in victory next to him.

Draco clenched his jaw as he forced himself to ignore Potter’s smug face. He looked at McGonagall. She was biased towards Potter, but she had a strong sense of justice. She wasn’t like Hooch, Draco could reason with her.

“I didn’t start it.” Draco repeated. From next to him, Potter rolled his eyes. “Hooch started it when she forced us to play against his team.”

McGonagall narrowed her eyes. “You mean to say that Madame Hooch was the cause of this altercation.”

 _Yes._ “I mean to say that any actions I took were influenced by her decision.” Draco said carefully, “I tried to reason with her.”

McGonagall moved her gaze to Potter. “Is he telling the truth?”

 _Why are you asking him to verify what I just said,_ Draco wanted to ask. _He hates me. Why would he tell the truth._ Draco could taste something bitter in his mouth. _Why does everyone trust him more than me._

“I can’t be sure.” Potter replied. “There was sarcasm involved.” 

_See?_ Draco shot McGonagall a look. He respected her a little bit, he wanted her to see his side of things. 

McGonagall eyed Draco for a while and then sighed. “Regardless of who started what, both of you raised your fists. You’re both to serve detention every day after school for the next week.”

That meant he had to skip his prefect duties tomorrow. Draco tried not to look too pleased. Then, something horrid occurred to him. 

“Together?” Draco asked. Potter stiffened beside him. That fate would be quite possibly worse than death.

“I think we can all agree that would be an unwise decision.” McGonagall huffed. 

Draco nodded. Beside him, Potter did the same thing. Draco disliked feeling a sense of camaraderie with Potter. 

“Potter, you will serve detention in the library. Malfoy, you will serve detention in the courtyard. Meet at your respective places once your lessons end tomorrow.”

This was so unfair. The library was an air-conditioned haven. The courtyard was an open space filled with the filth of adolescent children. A few years ago, Draco would have made a huge fuss about this stark difference in punishment. Recently, however, Draco was coming to realise that throwing tantrums was just a waste of his time. There was no point. There were more important things to divert his energy towards.

Like, for example, coming up with a lie convincing enough to explain his black eye to his mum.

* * *

Draco was ambushed near the entrance. Well, to be fair, it was Potter who was ambushed. Draco was very unfortunately caught in the fire, as was often the case when one spent extended periods of time with Potty The Star.

They were both walking towards the entrance, ignoring the other’s existence. Draco was staring at his phone, willing someone to text him so that he’d have something to do and Potter wouldn’t think him some friendless loser. (Not that Potter’s opinion mattered, of course. It was simply the principle of the matter.) Out of nowhere, a bright flash went off.

“Aghhhh!” Draco squawked, righteously, as he shielded his cornea from permanent damage.

“Oh, shut up.” Potter muttered back. Which was rich of him, given that _his_ cornea was very conveniently shielded by contacts. 

Draco glared at Potter through the temporary blind spots dancing across his vision. 

“Sorry about that Harry!” someone squeaked, “I needed a photo for the school newspaper, is all.”

Draco rolled his half-blinded eyes. _Typical._

“Er, now’s not the best time, Colin—maybe later,” Potter replied.

 _Oooh, Potter the celebrity,_ Draco thought, venomously. He gave Potter another caustic look and began to walk around them both.

“What happened to your nose, Harry?” the scrawny photographer asked.

“Oh, um, I got hit in the face with a ball during practice.” Potter then added, hastily, “It’s no big deal, Colin.”

 _Pretending to be all modest._ Draco couldn’t help half-turning his head and sneering, _“So_ clumsy, Potter.”

Except it just really wasn’t Draco’s day, and the photographer took one look at Draco and whispered to Potter, “What on earth happened to _Malfoy’s_ face?”

_He better not be talking about my acne._

Potter shrugged—and was that a hidden _grin_ on his lips?—“Dunno.”

The photographer turned haltingly towards Draco. “Uh, Malfoy—”

“No.” Draco said.

The photographer shrunk into himself, like a turtle. Draco smiled at him.

“He looks like he got mugged.” the photographer whispered to Potter.

Potter shrugged again. “Lucky bloke, whoever mugged him.”

Potter thought himself hilarious. It was so tragic.

“You didn’t get into another fight did you?” photographer-boy whispered, a sudden glint in his eyes.

“No! Listen, Colin, I’d really rather not have another article written about me—”

Ugh, he was so insufferable. Draco couldn’t deal with him. He turned to leave.

“Well, would you look at that, my dad’s here!” Potter cried, all of a sudden. “You know what, Colin? I’m sure Malfoy wouldn’t mind being interviewed—why don’t you ask him instead?” and with that, Potter sprinted out of the doors and into the back of a black SUV.

Draco reiterated in his mind that Potter was a stone-cold bitch. He gave photographer-boy a withering look.

“W— would you mind answering some questio—”

“Yes.” said Draco, by which he meant: _‘Yes, you twat, I_ **_would_ ** _mind.’_

Something must have gotten lost in translation, however, because the photographer-boy suddenly beamed. 

“Great! It’ll be really quick, I promise!”

Draco gave him another withering look. This one was ignored. It seemed the photographer-boy had no shame.

Another flash went off. Draco swallowed a squawk and rubbed his eyes, scowling.

“So. What happened?”

“What do you mean?” Draco asked.

“Uh, just, your face—”

“Well, photographer-boy—”

“M’name’s Colin.” he muttered.

“Don’t interrupt me, photographer-boy.” Draco glared, “As I was saying, my parents got married and then gave birth to me. And that is how my face happened.”

Colin stared at Draco as if he wasn’t sure whether he was meant to laugh or not. Draco raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, haha, I was actually wondering about how you got all those—”

“All those _what.”_ Draco asked, acidicly.

But photographer-boy knew no fear. “All those wounds, I meant.” he finished.

Draco was exhausted and irritated. And so, he broke the one promise he’d made his mum all those years ago.

He leant forward and took hold of Colin’s hand. Focusing on the fluttering in his chest he said, “You will leave me alone and forget about this conversation.” He paused, and then added (because if he’d come this far, why not), “Tomorrow you will publish an article about how Potter is overrated.”

Colin blinked dully at Draco and turned around to walk away. Draco huffed in exhaustion.

“Draco.” his mum’s voice called.

Draco turned stiffly. His mum was standing on the sidewalk outside the car. _Shite,_ the chauffeur was off today. Draco swallowed.

“Draco Malfoy.” his mum repeated, eyeing him coldly.

Draco smiled. It didn’t work.

* * *

“I can’t come because I’m grounded, you stupid cow.” Draco scowled, to Pansy.

“What the fuck did you do this time.” Pansy scowled back.

Draco pointed at his healing face, “Are you blind?”

Pansy rolled her eyes, “Do you think I’m dumb?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Fuck you, you pretentious arsehole.” she shoved his arm, “What _really_ got you grounded?”

Pansy knew him too well. Draco narrowed his eyes, lowering his voice. “I used mind-control on that Colin-guy.”

Pansy gave him a condemning look.

“He wouldn’t leave me alone!”

“You’re such a wanker. You promised Narcissa.”

Draco squirmed in his seat. “Yeah, well.”

Pansy eyed him, “What did you command of him?”

“To leave me alone.” 

Pansy eyed him some more, “What else did you command of him?”

Draco sniffed. “To write about how Potter’s overrated in the school newspaper.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Pansy castigated, “When are you going to get over your creepy obsession—”

“I’m _not_ obsessed!” Draco hissed.

“Obsession?” Blaise’s voice called, “We’re talking about Potter? Seriously? _Again?”_

Draco fought down his blush. “You’re both _hilarious.”_

Blaise sat down next to Pansy. Because they were _dating,_ and life was _horrible._

“No, Draco, _you’re_ hilarious.” Blaise returned, “Especially when you’re obsessing over Potter.”

“I don’t _obsess_ over him!”

“Yeah, and I’m not gorgeous,” Blaise grinned. 

Draco scowled. “You narcissistic knob.”

“So you admit you obsess.” Pansy smirked.

“Why am I friends with you people.” 

“Beggars can’t be choosy.” Blaise replied.

 _Fair,_ Draco thought but didn’t admit.

“Speaking of Potter—there’s another article about him in the school newspaper,” Blaise pointed to his phone.

“Oh?” Draco said, nonchalantly. Pansy rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, it’s about how he’s under all these expectations because he’s so perfect and whatnot—it makes him out to be some tragic hero.”

“Fucking _shit.”_ _Of course. Of-fucking-course. Fuck you, Potter._

Pansy sighed. “As expected.”

“Potter The Great.” Blaise grinned, throwing an arm over her shoulder.

Being fifteen was the worst.

* * *

Draco stared at the graffiti on the wall at the back of the courtyard. He felt his meagre supply of motivation dry up. This felt a lot closer to child labour than detention.

At least Filch had left him all alone. Draco scanned his surroundings and sat on the floor. He unlocked his phone and began scrolling through the school newspaper app. No-one ever read it and the stuff they wrote in it was absolute nonsense, but occasionally Draco would scan through so that he could sneer at the latest rubbish about Potter.

Today’s stupid article was too much for Draco. He skimmed through it with a dark scowl on his face.

_Harry Potter, the youngest person to make the… Most popular in the year... Perfect... but all isn’t perfect in Harry’s life!... surrounded by the expectations of his peers... unfairly perfect image... only human, after all!... under constant scrutiny... even this article... irony... Harry Potter!... imperfections make him all the more human… daresay, all the more perfect?_

Draco closed the app and deleted it. He wanted to throw his phone across the courtyard. What was it about Potter that made everybody so fucking gaga over him? He was so bloody average. Draco didn’t get it.

And the jealousy was driving him mad. It was so unfair.

Potter. Potter. Potter. Draco didn’t get it at all.

He wasn’t even _that_ good-looking. On a good day, he was a solid 6 out of 10. And his perpetual bed-head… it was so… so… _ugh._ He was so bloody sanctimonious, as well. So fucking obsessed with flaunting his moral superiority over other people. _Ooh, look at me, I’m Harry Potter and I volunteer to teach under-privileged children football because I’m an angel-baby and I poop sparkles and oh my goodness, are you seriously telling me that you’re_ not _a 100% pure-angel baby like me? Oh my goodness gracious me, you absolute filthy scum of this planet, go eat shit._

Except it was even worse because sometimes it seemed as if Potter actually was as righteous as he made himself out to be. And then, by comparison, Draco was left feeling even worse about himself. 

If Potter really was all goodness, and sparkle-sunshine, where did that leave Draco? A third-rate foil? An existence only really worth-while because his flaws made the goody-goody protagonist seem all that more perfect?

But Potter wasn’t perfect at all. Not in the least. He was awkward, and way too reticent for the glorious persona he had somehow created for himself. His temper was his weakness, he was quick to anger and even quicker to act before thinking. His worldview was too simple. He saw everything in absolutes. Black and white, no room for grey. There was no room for complex nuance in Potter’s life. He had no eye for impartiality, he couldn’t hide his emotions. He was an idiot.

He was also especially rude to Draco. Mean, but only when provoked. As if he was above interacting with Draco. As if Draco wasn’t worth his attention.

Draco clenched his jaw. He sat himself down next to the graffitied wall. There really was nothing better at killing his ego than comparing himself to Potter.

Draco was aware, somewhere in his mind, that a lot of his vehement dislike sprouted from his own insecurities. He was too pale, too skinny, too pimpley. And all in all, just nowhere near good enough, especially so when compared to Potter. Potter, who was the poster-child for the son his father had always wanted to have. Potter, who was the hero Draco had once dreamed of being. Who was everything Draco wasn’t, and whose very existence served as a reminder for every single way that Draco fell short. 

There were so very many ways that Draco fell short. He was meant for greatness, sure, but he wondered whether he’d ever be able to grasp it as he was now, and as he would perhaps always be. 

Just nowhere near good enough.

Even his dreams, Draco knew, were ill-fitted for him. Fighting against discrimination, being a significant part of a socio-political revolution. It was too heroic, too righteous. Especially for Draco, who had been, once upon a time, quite discriminatory himself, and even now, was morally grey at best. Pansy had laughed that first time that Draco had told her what he’d wanted to do with his life. _‘Hypocrite,’_ she’d said. _‘No,’_ Draco had replied, _‘I’m different now, I’ve grown.’_

Except that didn’t stop him from feeling a helpless guilt every-time he remembered the moments he’d acted as if his privilege made him superior. Every-time he’d acted as if he was the centre of the universe, and that everyone, save for the people that he liked, was just deficient somehow. In some ways, it was still second-nature for him to believe himself above everyone else. He was still learning how to change. 

And every-time he would remember the horrible things he’d said, or done, as a child, he’d wonder whether he was just intrinsically spoiled; If there was something within him that made him inherently selfish, self absorbed. His dreams—which in some ways were a form of repentance—were too virtuous. He didn’t deserve the honour, and yet it seemed that it was singularly within that harsh fight for equity that he’d finally find absolution. 

It was so difficult learning how to forgive himself.

And even harder when Potter was standing right there, never having done one wrong thing in his entire life. Never having made someone cry, for no good reason. Never having hated himself.

Draco grabbed the piece of cloth that Filch had left him and began scrubbing viciously at a pair of poorly-drawn tits. He hated feeling like this—as if the jealousy would eat him whole. He scrubbed at the tits harder.

* * *

After the tits came the gigantic yellow knob, and after that came the smaller, purple knob, and then the series of wobbly orange knobs. After the knobs came the _‘A+G 4-EVA <3’ _ and the _‘Fuk u all’_ and the _‘Harry Potter is a Sexy Bastard’_. Draco scrubbed at that last one especially hard.

Then, to Draco’s surprise, came the political stuff. Small, multi-coloured cats after the negative press the current PM, Cornelius Fudge, had gotten in the media. Draco really wanted to leave the cats on the wall. Fudge was a homophobic, racist bigot and his comment about how the low employment rates for LGBTQIA+ people in certain sectors was due to their ‘complacency’ rather than any blatant work-place discrimination had resulted in huge social media backlash. Multi-coloured cats had become an ironic symbol against him—multi-coloured for the LGBT+ representation, and cats for his comments about ‘complacency’. 

But the political graffiti wasn’t all positive. Below the cats came stuff related to the new nationalistic codswallop Fudge was trying to push: A new immigration law set on introducing a quota of foreign workers and students allowed into the nation. It was particularly worrying because the referendum was coming up soon, and so far public interest had been arching towards accepting the new quota instead of rejecting it. The most frustrating thing, however, was that this public opinion was largely caused by the absolute nonsense propaganda run in The Daily Prophet—one of the most widely read newspapers in the country. For months now, The Daily Prophet had been running articles on how jobs and university seats—which, according to them, ‘by right’ belonged to the domestic population—were being filled up by foreigners. With such utterly biased news coverage, it was no wonder that the general population—who weren’t conditioned to doubt what they read in the papers—was inclined to support Fudge’s new law.

Draco couldn’t even start with how stupid this entire situation was. All one had to do was take a quick look at the largest shareholders of The Prophet in order to see that it was very obviously run by members of Fudge’s political party. It was a smart political move, for sure, to have the most influential newspaper at your beck and call. Or rather, it would have been a smart political move, say, thirty years ago, when the internet hadn’t been a thing. One click on #UKImmigrationQuota or #CorneliusFudge on Twitter opened up the wider, less biased opinions of the internet. From there on it was smooth sailing—the internet was harder to fool and impossible to control. The internet’s dissonance regarding Fudge’s new political agenda not only completely discredited the news on The Daily Prophet, but also painted Fudge as an incredibly corrupt politician.

In Draco’s personal view, Fudge was corrupt, yes, but he was also incredibly stupid—which, infinitely, was worse in a political setting. His political views were overtly—to the point of being dastardly—conservative, but above that, to have made such a blatant mistake made him an extremely incompetent PM. Not only were his political views out-dated and harmful for the growth of the country, but as an idiot, he also garnered no respect at all. Every move he made was social suicide. _Morons shouldn’t step onto the political battlefield,_ Draco huffed to himself.

The problem, however, was that amongst those who voted, people who tried to keep up with politics on the internet composed a very small demographic. Largely, the actively voting population was older, more conservative, and more easily deceived by The Daily Prophet’s nonsense—hence why the likelihood of the Immigration Quota being passed was pretty fucking high. Draco seriously wondered why people who were more dead than alive ended up having more of a say regarding the future of the country than people who would actually live through the hellish repercussions. Everyone was so fucking stupid. It was incredibly frustrating. _And people wonder why I’m perpetually irritated,_ thought Draco, darkly. 

The majority of younger people weren’t interested enough in politics to attempt actively opposing Fudge. Amongst the people who _were_ interested, some couldn’t vote, while others thought their vote was insignificant and wouldn’t make a difference. Only really a minuscule percentage of people were left.

Even then, however, the graffiti on the wall had been surprising. Hogwarts School of Academia had quite a diverse student population due to its international acclaim. It was granted, then, that the general political opinion—when there _was,_ scarcely ever, a political opinion—was liberal. But the comments on the wall— _‘Fudge the immigrants in the arse,’_ amongst others—were surprisingly derogatory. It was possible, of course, that Arseholes were just being Arseholes and these comments didn’t necessarily have any political undertone to them. Seeing them, however, Draco felt a sudden uncontrollable anger. It wasn’t just because his mother’s family had French origins, but also because this was _Hogwarts School of Academia, for fucks sake._ It was meant to be progressive in every sense of the word. Half of the bloody year was boarding from abroad. To see something like this—Draco narrowed his eyes as he read another comment: _‘Fudge the Fairies next!’_ —in a place which was meant to be a symbol of solidarity for young children, a place that was meant to be a safe haven, was jarring.

Draco thought himself a healthy pessimist in regards to the way he viewed the world around him. To be surprised—disappointed even—by some stupid writing on the wall, was a pretty big deal. _The world,_ thought Draco, _is shittier every day._

And so, Draco scrubbed especially hard at the offensive trash, and very very lightly at the nicer stuff. But as he worked furiously, his anger didn’t dissipate. Rather, it grew, and then grew again every time he remembered that the population of people around him had elected a blithering idiot to rule them all. 

What was the fucking _point_ in being so concerned about the world if it seemed most people were dead set on ruining it? Except… except, well, he lived in it. Technically—if statistics were to be followed—as a queer person, Draco was part of a minority. And although he was a rich, white, male and pretty much dripping in privilege, it wasn’t just about _him._ It wasn’t. Sure, he wanted a more just society so that he could live freely, but it wasn’t just that. It was everything. It was his friends—Pansy, who was three-quarters Korean; Blaise, who was Black British—it was his mother, a woman who made 98 pence to his Father’s pound—and no, actually, _nearly_ the same _wasn’t fucking good enough_ —it was Remus, who was in a long-term gay relationship, and whose scars some people regarded as ‘facial disfigurements’—it was his cousin, Looney, who’d always been regarded as strange for behaving in ways that weren’t neurotypical. Beyond all the personal reasons, it was the rich diversity he’d seen that first time he’d been in the city, it was the rich diversity he’d been surrounded by in school. It was all the people he wanted to meet; all the stories he wanted to hear; all the ways he wanted to grow; all the beauty he wanted to preserve. It was for justice. It was for suffering and discrimination that happened because of the _colour of someone’s skin,_ or _what was between their legs,_ or _what wasn’t between their legs,_ or _the way they identified themselves and wanted to live their life,_ or _the people they were or weren’t sexually attracted to_ and a whole fucking load of other things that were _none of anyone’s fucking business._

People should be able to live their lives in the ways that they wish, within reason. People should be assured safety; they should be guaranteed fair payment for the work that they have done. People should be allowed to be happy. The first fucking article in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights is literally: ‘All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and right.’ People are born with their race, sex, gender, sexual orientation, neurological alignment etc. They are born as so, and are therefore equal in dignity and right regardless of so. Justice is the first human right.

 _Justice is the first human right._ When justice isn’t served, when a situation is unjust, it’s not right; It is, logically following, wrong. Very wrong. It is a violation of a universally agreed upon moral code. And when one breaks that moral code, they fail to follow the requisites of civilisation. In some cases, one may even argue that by failing to be the most basic level of humane, they consequently and intrinsically also fail to be human. Thereby, they lose the right to the respect that one garners as human. Through their actions—which have been discriminatory and have violated the rights of others—they lose the right which was theirs at birth. A human can only ever lose their rights through their actions.

And as Draco ruminated over this, he made a decision. If he was honest, he’d admit it was rather haphazard. As luck would have it, there was no pressing need to be honest, and as such, he convinced himself that his decision was a very meticulous one. A very meticulous one that had been made in a very short amount of time. Because Draco was brilliant enough to carefully make important, possibly life-changing, decisions in seconds. Of course.

He possessed powers, and as the great Uncle Ben had once said, With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility. So, really, honestly speaking, Draco was literally obligated to completely ruin The Daily Prophet. It was a literal obligation. There was nothing to be done about it.

Draco ignored the sensation of his lips turning up as he began doing the one thing that caused him endless satisfaction, and his mother, endless headaches—he began making plans.

* * *

It was at 3 am that night that inspiration struck. It’d been so easy to manipulate that Colin-fellow. Sure, he’d under-estimated how well and truly obsessed Colin was with Potter, and had consequently fucked up, but it was the principle of the matter that struck out to him.

All he needed to completely ruin The Daily Prophet was to completely discredit them in the eyes of the population. Once the seed of doubt was planted, it was only time before discord grew large enough that people saw the propaganda for what it truly was. A domino effect would follow, with the most likely outcome that people would begin to turn to their phones, their tablets. It was a digital age, after all. So what if your preferred paper turned out to be rubbish? What better time to make the digital switch. The digital landscape was a world of its own, and it was populated by people from all corners of the world. 

And then… _and then…_ Exposure, Education, Epiphany—The Three E’s of Success and the Destruction of Biased News Coverage.

It was simple, really.

The best way to do that was to manipulate what the reporters wrote, like what he’d done to Colin. Except, of course, he couldn’t use mind-control. The results were too unpredictable, and anyway, his mum would kill him. 

The only thing left was his telekinesis.

In other words, Draco would have to physically follow around a leading Daily Prophet reporter and fuck shit up. 

He couldn’t help his smile at the thought.

* * *

“Why are you following me.” Potter glared at him.

“If only you were that lucky.” Draco sneered back. The fucking _gall_ of Potter to think he was following him.

“Seriously, Malfoy, stop it.”

He was so fucking impossible. “Get over yourself. I have better things to do than waste my time on you.” Draco eyed him disdainfully, “Tell me, you embarrassing idiot, how it’s possible to be so arrogant when you have nothing to be arrogant about.”

Potter flushed. It was hilarious, as always, but also Draco really didn’t have time for this. He sighed impatiently.

“Go on then, off you fuck.” Draco shooed him away, “I have more pressing matters to attend to.”

Potter narrowed his eyes. “Aren’t you grounded?”

Draco stared at him. After a while, he pointed a finger accusingly at his chest. “Oh my god, I knew it. No-one believed me, but I _knew it. ‘Shut up, Draco,’_ Pansy said when I told her, but _no! I was right! You’re a stalker! I knew it! You_ stalk _me.”_

“You wish, Malfoy.”

“No, Potter, I don’t wish. It is, in fact, _you_ who wishes, as is very strongly supported by the fact that you apparently stalk me and know all about extremely personal family details like the disciplinary rituals my mother engages in.”

Potter flushed again. “I—I don’t—I don’t _stalk_ you. I—No, it was Hermione, she—”

 _“Granger_ stalks me?” Draco asked, horrified by the very thought. 

“What? No—”

“See.” nodded Draco, “It is you. You’re the stalker. I knew it. You dodgy git.”

Potter took a few deep breaths.

“Is this a new anger management strategy? I don’t think it’s working.”

Potter took another couple of deep breaths.

“Fuck’s sake, Potter, just stop, it’s not working.”

A muscle in Potter’s jaw twitched. “Hermione. Overheard. Parkinson. Tell. Bulstrode. Tha—”

“Speed it up, I have things to do,” Draco sighed loudly, “places to be, a life to live—I know it’s difficult for you to imagine, don’t hurt yourself.”

Potter threw his hands into the air and began speed walking away. With his required daily intake of Insulting Potter fulfilled, Draco meandered towards where he’d already ascertained Rita Skeeter would be. As he went over his plan in his mind, Draco was in a good enough mood to ignore his hair being completely ruined by the wind.

Maybe five minutes later: “Why.” Potter said. And then. “Wait, don’t answer that. It’s fine, don’t talk. Never talk again.”

Draco eyed Potter in silence. It seemed, for reasons currently unknown to Draco, that Potter would be present for the first part of Draco’s plan. Quickly going over the potential repercussions of this un-accounted variable, Draco confirmed that the only significant change would be how careful he’d have to be to not be caught. Draco walked directly into the crowd in an attempt to lose sight of Potter. 

And then, all too soon, it was time for action.

Skeeter was here to report on the opening of a new pub. Well, actually, she was really here to report on the person _opening_ the new pub—a woman named Jane Court—an ex-convict who’d been released roughly two years ago. From what Draco had gathered—through the quick research he’d managed to fit in during French—Court had spent eleven months in custody for possession and illegal use of cocaine. At the time of her arrest, the papers had had a field day—drug misuse was common enough, but Court had the additional misfortune of being pretty well-known already. She was an up-and-coming chef with plans to open a restaurant of her very own in the heart of the city. Moreover, her father was a renowned celebrity psychiatrist, and Court herself had graduated from some of the most prestigious institutions—Hogwarts School of Academia; Fairdog University of the Culinary Arts. There was just so much for the press to latch onto and manipulate into sensationalist headlines. Themes of drug abuse, nepotism, mental health, corruption, and even Court’s own moral character, had come up. The people accepted the headlines like a parched throat to water. Nothing interesting had occurred for the longest time, and the population had rather missed speculating and watching as an up-and-coming personality lost it all in the matter of twelve hours.

That’s how long it had taken—twelve hours, and everything that Court had created, whether through the help of her connections or her own strength, had been completely lost. Before the scandal, she’d had a rather spotless image. Twelve hours, and people began spitting at her name. ‘Chef Jane Court’ turned into ‘Crack-head Court,’ and littered with waves upon waves of social-media abuse, perhaps it was a blessing in disguise that she was apprehended before the comments took a serious toll on her mental health. 

And here she stood now, three years later, thin to the point of frail, and a nervous, wounded air about her. Draco couldn’t find within himself the ability to scorn her. It’d been impossible to discern the truth from amongst all the data he’d researched, but he’d found it increasingly likely that the press had over-blown what had been—for lack of a more appropriate description—a simple drug scandal. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time the press had done something like this, and anyway, Draco was a big believer in the potential for redemption. After she’d been released, Court had disappeared from the limelight and had ostensibly admitted herself to a rehabilitation facility. And now here she was, at the culmination of her efforts—her own pub, more bourgeois than her restaurant had promised to be, certainly, but after a complete destruction of her public persona, no less impressive in Draco’s eyes. That she had held on to her dreams, despite the sudden disastrous turn her life had taken, was worthy of immense respect.

And as she stood there, glancing nervously at the growing crowd of people surrounding the entrance, Draco felt a sudden protective instinct. And as he overheard a couple of reporters snickering about her choice of clothes, Draco felt a burgeoning anger. Was it so difficult for them to just let her live her life peacefully? It wasn’t even as if she’d publicised the opening of her new pub. How the press had found out, Draco hadn’t a clue, but he suspected they’d been keeping an eye on her for a while in order to squeeze out whatever sensationalist nonsense they could. He glanced at the snickering reporters and used his powers to unzip their pants. That he’d left it simply at that was a cause of great restraint on his part.

Draco scanned the crowd for Skeeter— _ah, there she is._ She stood towards the front, almost directly in front of Court, looking every bit like a blonde vulture. Draco bit his lip in concentration and moved to the side, in order to get a better view of both her and Court. He crossed his arms and watched as the reporters got ready to, no doubt, tear her apart once again. _Let them try,_ Draco thought, vicious with his sudden protectiveness. 

A red haired woman stood next to Court, speaking with her in low tones. When the press began throwing questions, the red-haired woman took a step forward and intercepted.

“Ms. Court, have you gotten legal permission to open an establishment?” had been the pivotal question.

“Of course she has.” the red-haired woman snapped, “Have you gotten legal permission to ask her such pervasive questions after her validated restraining order?”

Undeterred, the reporter continued, “Ms. Court, why aren’t you answering for yourself—”

“I asked if you’ve legal permission to bring a news-coverage team onto Ms. Court’s new premises.” the red-haired woman interrupted, coldly.

This time, the reporter flinched. “Of course, we do—”

“Really?” the red-haired woman asked, “As her psychiatrist, I can’t recall approving anything of that sort.”

“The permission comes under freedom of pres—” the reporter began.

“Ms. Court owns the land you’re currently standing on. In legal terms, you’re on her property,” the red-haired woman glared, “and if she tells you to fuck off, you’re obligated to fuck off.”

Draco smiled. He liked the red-haired woman.

“Sh— she hasn’t sa—” 

The red-haired woman narrowed her eyes at the reporter. He flinched and then promptly shut up. Draco huffed a quiet laugh.

The red-haired woman muttered something to Court. What seemed like a short conversation later, Court cleared her throat.

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but I can’t at this moment answer any of your questions,” Court began, in a timid voice, “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you all to leave the premises.”

There was a quiet murmur of dissent. 

The reporter-idiot spoke up again—Draco narrowed his eyes and unzipped the idiot’s pants—“Are you afrai—”

The red-haired woman cleared her throat loudly. The reporter-idiot shut up again. 

The red-haired woman looked imploringly at Court. Court coughed, “Sorry, but I’ll have to ask you all to fuck off now, please.”

The red-haired woman smiled at the reporter-idiot smugly. Draco got a sudden shock of déjà vu. 

Court coughed again, before beginning awkwardly, “Uhm, also, well,” she lowered her voice a tad, “Sorry, but your trousers are unzipped.”

The reporter-idiot flushed. A few people began giggling. Draco took a positive note of who they were.

Then, Skeeter opened her vulture mouth.

“Jane Court.” Skeeter said, her voice clear and shrill above the steady murmur.

Court flinched at the sound. Draco recalled that Skeeter had been one of the primary reporters involved in Court’s case a few years ago. The red-haired woman eyed Skeeter suspiciously.

“Congratulations on overcoming your cocaine addiction.” began Skeeter, obsequiously, “It’s unbelievable how far you’ve come.”

Court nodded stiffly back, “Thank you, but I’m afraid I’ll still have to ask you all to leave.”

“Oh, we’re here to eat!” Skeeter smiled, gesturing for the cameraman to stop taking pictures, “Unless, of course, you’re driving away potential customers. I can’t recommend that’d be very good for business.”

Draco eyed Skeeter, and the pen sitting in her shirt pocket. Focusing on the fluttering in his chest, he began to unscrew the cap. Carefully, in this way, he removed the ink reservoir, snapped it, and let it fall to the ground. He did the same thing to all the pens he saw on her person. _It’s amazing what I can get away with when no-ones paying attention._

The red-haired woman scoffed. “You’re the most curious bunch of customers I’ve ever met.”

Skeeter giggled. “Of course, seeing Ms. Court’s, shall we say, rather cracky past—oh, do loosen up, sweetheart, it was just a joke.” she aimed at Court’s involuntary shiver.

The red-haired woman bristled. Court put a hand on her shoulder and murmured something to her. A few of the reporters around them leant forward invasively. Draco unzipped all their trousers. 

“If you’re here as a customer, you’re more than welcome to stay,” Court said, her voice clearer than it had been before, “I opened this pub to sell my food and drink, after all.” 

“Of course, darling,” Skeeter smiled, and then continued in a patronising tone, “It’s so helpful having a rich father, isn’t it?”

“S— sorry, I don’t quite see why—”

“Oh, there’s no need for that, now,” said Skeeter, “We all know this new pub’s built on Daddy’s money.”

Court paled.

“Isn’t it?” Skeeter asked, taking the now inkless pen out of her pocket and opening a small notebook.

Draco narrowed his eyes. He eyed one of the broken reservoirs on the ground next to Skeeter and levitated it to rest behind her bare knee.

“No, Rita Skeeter,” managed Court, her voice oddly choked, “It’s not. I’ve opened this pub using my own abilities.”

“Oh, but Daddy’s money surel— _eek!”_ Skeeter yelped as Draco stroked the back of her knee with the broken ink reservoir.

The people around Skeeter turned to look at her oddly.

Skeeter flushed, “Sorry, sorry, it must’ve been a bug.” She clicked the pen in her hands and began to write in her notebook. “Where were we, Ms. Cour— _h_ _mmm?”_ Skeeter frowned as she noticed her pen missing its ink reservoir. “Sorry about that, sorry, my pen— _what?”_ She was now frowning down at two inkless pens. The people around her had begun to murmur amongst themselves while looking at her. “So sorry about the inconvenience, don’t mind m— _what the fuck is happening?!”_ her voice lowered to a shrill whisper when she noticed the third inkless pen.

Draco swallowed a smile and stroked the back of her knee with a broken ink reservoir again.

 _“EEEK!!”_ Skeeter jumped and turned around frantically. Draco moved the broken ink reservoir into her skirt pocket. 

It was then that Skeeter noticed all the broken ink reservoirs around her feet. “Oh my god, oh my god, what is this,” she blanched.

A few of the reporters around her giggled. One or two flashes went off. 

“Rita, what the fuck are you doing?” asked her cameraman.

In front of the doors of the pub, the red-haired woman stared coldly at Skeeter. “If you’re quite done, Ms. Skeeter.”

Skeeter ignored her, turning to her cameraman accusingly, “What the fuck did you do to my pens, Arnold?”

“What?”

“My _pens, Arnold!”_ Skeeter near-screeched, _“What the fuck is this?!”_ she waved her inkless pens at Arnold’s face.

The giggles had spread around the crowd of reporters. Draco was pleased to find that Rita Skeeter was exactly as unpopular amongst those who worked in her field as the internet had suggested. 

Draco stroked the back of Skeeter’s neck with a broken ink reservoir.

 _“My pen—_ ** _AAAAGGGHHHHH!”_ ** she yelled, slapping the back of her neck viciously. Draco stroked the back of her knee once again. **_“ARNOLD, GET IT OFF ME, GET IT OFF ME!”_ **

“There’s nothing on you,” Arnold looked at her in dismay.

Draco moved strands of Skeeter’s hair to wind around one of the hinges of her glasses. Then, coordinating it with when Skeeter swivelled around, Draco pushed her glasses off her face. They entangled with her hair and hung limply at the side of her head.

 **_“ARNOLD!!!!”_ **Skeeter wailed, tugging at her glasses to no avail as Draco stroked yet again at the back of her knee.

“You’re barking mad, Rita.” Arnold remarked. “I’m going home.” he said, as he began packing his things. He turned to Court, “I’m terribly sorry about this…” he added, while looking at her intently, “ _all_ of this,”

Draco was even more pleased to find that Skeeter was exactly as unpopular amongst her own coworkers as the internet had suggested. He so loved it when things went according to plan. 

“It’s quite alright.” Court replied, faintly. Next to her, the red-haired woman snickered at Skeeter.

And then the reporter-idiot had to go and be a fucking idiot once again, “Ms. Court!” he bellowed above the ruckus Skeeter was creating over her pens, (“Was it _you,_ Karen?!” she shouted as she pointed accusingly at the woman standing next to her) “Do you or do you not admit to adding cocaine to your dishe—”

 _Right._ Draco thought, decisively, as he pulled down the reporter-idiot’s trousers.

“Jake, oh my god!” screeched who Draco assumed was the reporter-idiot’s co-worker.

Jake began cussing furiously as he leant down to pull his pants back up. When he was adequately bent over, Draco gave him a wedgie.

 _“MGHHHHH.”_ he groaned loudly, falling forwards to the ground as Draco twisted his trousers imperceptibly around his feet.

“I— I’m sorry about all this!” said the co-worker, hastily, to Court.

“It,” began Court, blinking, before shaking her head and continuing resolutely, “It’s not okay, actually. That accusation was false and highly offensive.”

“We could sue you for defamation.” added the red-haired woman, and then, with laughter in her voice, “And also public indecency. Jake—was it?—is that Thomas the Tank Engine I see?”

Jake began writhing on the ground trying to pull up his pants, his face completely red. Alas, Draco had wound them rather expertly around his feet and as thus his continued efforts were largely unsuccessful, and even quite counterproductive when in the effort to pull his trousers up—to the immediate horror of his coworker—his underwear began to slip downwards, revealing to all present the beginning of his butt crack. 

_Poor Jake,_ thought Draco, completely unrepentant and with pleasure so high it bordered on bliss.

“Jake, what are you _doing?!”_ hissed his coworker, trying, unsuccessfully, to hide both Jake’s Thomas The Tank Engine pants and the sliver of his extremely pale buttox from the shuttering cameras of the other reporters.

 **_“YOU.”_ ** yelled Skeeter—except it didn’t quite have the effect she was looking for, given that she had spent the greater part of the last five minutes yelling at everyone around her. Her _‘YOU!’_ was consequently lost in the pursuing chaos.

Skeeter, as the data had suggested, didn’t take to being ignored very well. **_“YOU!”_ ** she yelled again, **_“JANE COURT! YOU DID THIS!”_ **

The people around Skeeter turned to look at her incredulously. One woman even began to write something down on her notepad.

 **_“KAREN!”_ **yelled Skeeter, pulling the pen out of Karen’s hand and throwing it viciously at Court.

The pen got as far as a few metres before Draco halted its trajectory and threw it back at Skeeter’s face. The satisfaction he got as he watched it smack her moronic expression of shock was _euphoric._

 **_“YOU HAVE MAGIC!”_ **screeched Skeeter, her eyes wide as her glasses hit the side of her face from where they were tangled in her hair.

“Yeah, and you have psychosis.” muttered Karen.

Then, as Draco moved the broken ink reservoir in Skeeter’s pocket to draw a small heart on the back of her knee, Skeeter promptly burst into tears.

The people around her took a few nervous steps away.

“God, Rita, I didn’t mean to make you cry,” began Karen, eyeing Skeeter restlessly.

Draco looked back at Court. He found, to his pleasant surprise, that she was laughing.

“I think,” Court started, a giggle lacing her words, “that perhaps you should all go home,” when a few reporters opened their mouths to object, she added, “Unless of course, you’d like to come inside for the opening of my new pub. As I’ve said before, you’re all welcome to join me as customers.” After a quick glance at Skeeter, she added, kindly, “I think some tea would be nice right now,” 

A few reporters around her laughed weakly as they voiced their assent. Others, notably a few with lowered zips, looked gratifyingly chagrined before nodding haltingly.

There were still one or two, however, that remained the scum of this earth and looked at Court suspiciously and with obvious callousness in their eyes. Draco didn’t wait for them to open their mouths. Draco was a man of action. He took one look at them, nodded imperceptibly, and then pulled down both their trousers.

“Kevin, for fuck’s sake.” said someone.

“John, _god,_ there are _children_ present!” said another.

The fact that no-one doubted the cause of this pantsing to be anything but self-inflicted said a lot about the characters of these two men. Draco took in a deep lungful of air and smiled as he felt the warm, tingling sensation of schadenfreude spreading across his chest. Even glancing away and making brief eye-contact with Potter across the crowd wasn’t enough to quell it.

Draco cheerfully gave Potter the finger and smiled wider as he saw him flush with anger.

“Well then,” called the red-haired women, “Without further ado…”

The doors to Jane Court’s pub—The Fair Heart—were thrown open to reveal a cosy brown and burnished gold interior. _A bit like Remus’s hair,_ reminisced Draco, fondly.

“Welcome all,” smiled Court.

Everyone, including Arnold—who’d never really gone home at all, and had instead lingered around the sidelines—Draco, and also, unfortunately, Potter, ew, entered the pub.

Apart from Skeeter, Jake, Kevin and John—who’d all skedaddled away pretty fast-like despite Court’s quite altruistic inclusiveness—everyone else had an obviously lovely time. Watching as Court’s smile grew as the late afternoon melted into evening, Draco grinned to himself. 

* * *

“What will you have?” the red-haired woman asked Draco, from behind the bar.

Draco wondered whether he should risk asking for alcohol. He was still running on his success high. _Oh, fuck it._ “I’ll take a whisky, neat.”

The red-haired woman huffed a breath of laughter, “Pretty brave of you, asking for alcohol while wearing your school uniform.”

 _Shit._ Happiness killed Draco’s IQ. “It was a joke, I’ll take some water.”

The red-haired woman smiled, “Sure.”

Draco drummed his fingers against the wood and scrolled through his messages.

Ugly Cow: 

_How was scrubbing titties LOL?_

_Oh, wait, i forgot who i was talking to:_

_How was scrubbing penises LOLOL?? ;0_

_^This is, quite literally, the most action u’ve ever gotten_

_And also, most probably, the most action u’ll ever get._

_O my pathetic son, how u worry ur mother so_

Draco rubbed his temple with his free hand, and texted Pansy back.

Me: 

_1\. fuck u_

_2\. ur not even 5% attractive enough to be my mother_

_3\. I think i fcked u up permanently when I turned u into a dog that one time_

_^it’s the only explanation_

“Your water,” the red-haired woman said, as she handed Draco his glass.

“Thank you,”

“No problem,” she smiled, nodding towards his sweater and adding, “I’m an alumnus, myself.”

Draco clicked off his phone, and nodded at her, “Is that how you know Chef Court?”

The red-haired woman made herself comfortable on a stool across Draco. She had very nice eyes, Draco noticed.

“No, she graduated a few cohorts after me—we met in therapy, I’m her psychiatrist,”

Draco swallowed his question about why she seemed to be working as a bartender for Court if that was the case. It was important to be tactful, after all. He smiled politely and nodded.

The red-haired woman smiled at Draco’s nod, “I’m helping her out today for the opening because she’s short on hands.”

 _Ah,_ Draco nodded again.

“Oh, I haven’t introduced myself,” the red-haired woman realised, “I’m Lily,”

Draco wondered whether Lily knew Remus. (Oh, and Sirius.) “I’m Draco,”

Lily blinked, “What year are you in Draco?”

“Fifth.”

“Is your last name Malfoy?”

Draco looked at her suspiciously. She was a stranger, after all. “Sorry, do you perhaps know me? Or my parents?”

Lily laughed. Looking at her laughing face, Draco was hit, once again, with a sudden shock of déjà vu. 

“Or perhaps you know _of_ me? Do you have a child in the school?” _Oh my god, what if it’s someone I’ve bullied._ “I’d like for you to know that the way that children interpret social situations is often very different to the reality of what happened. Memory is, after all, a very unreliable thing,” Draco looked at her intently, “As you well know, because you’re a psychiatrist.”

Lily laughed again, “Reconstructive memory, yes, I _do_ know, actually.” She looked at Draco with interest, “My son talks about you all the time.”

_Fuck._

“Oh, ahahaha, would you look at the time!—”

“Although he’s never mentioned before what a handsome, intelligent young man you are,” Lily continued.

Draco sat down. He wasn’t impervious to free praise. “Yes, well, reconstructive memory and all that.”

Lily smiled, “Of course.”

Draco recalled Remus and Sirius, “My parents are Hogwarts alumni as well, actually.”

“Ah yes, Malfoy, was it? Lucius Malfoy, yes, you look just like him—who did he marry again?”

“Narcissa Black,” Draco said, with pride, because his mother was awesome.

“Wait, Narcissa actually married _him?”_ Lily asked, aghast. She then added quickly, “Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t mea—”

“No, it’s fine, I get it.” Draco agreed. “My mum’s _so_ out of his league.” 

Lily burst into laughter. “I take back what I said before, you’re just like your mother.”

Draco smiled, pleased, “She’s very beautiful.”

Lily smiled, “She is.” she peered at Draco, “You share her mannerisms, and her eyes.” 

“Did you know her?” Draco asked, curious.

“Not really—we have mutual friends,”

 _Mutual friends…_ “Are you talking about Remus?”

Lily nodded, surprised, “Yes, actually—and Sirius,”

 _Ah, right. Sirius._ “Yeah, him.”

Lily laughed again. She had a very nice laugh. She also had very nice eyes. _Where’s all this déjà vu coming from?_

“Remus is the best.” Draco remarked, ignoring the déjà vu.

“I agree.”

Draco hummed for a while, and then blurted out, “Why did he marry _Sirius.”_

Draco had been sick with chickenpox the week of their wedding and neither his mum or him had been able to go. Which, honestly, was a blessing in disguise. Draco had cried for _hours_ when he saw the wedding photos.

Lily tutted sadly, “Nobody knows.”

Draco liked Lily very much. He smiled.

Lily lowered her tone to conspiratorial levels, “Sirius had a crush on him for _ages_ when we were in school. He managed to pull himself together in seventh year and ask Remus out.”

“Why did Remus say yes.” Draco lamented.

Lily threw her head back in laughter, “You’re hilarious, Draco.”

“I know. But why did Remus say _yes.”_ he repeated.

“Honestly,” Lily leant forward on the bar and tilted her hair as she reminisced, “We were all really surprised. I mean, it just seemed so hopeless. But then we were all at this party, and Sirius got himself pissed and James—that’s my husband, by the way—was too pissed to stop him, and he just, well, he got up on a table and pointed arrogantly at Remus and shouted—what did he say again? Oh, yeah— _‘I LOVESH YOU.’_ and then he fell off the table.” Lily laughed a little to herself, “We were all like, _‘Oh shit,’_ because we thought it was a definite rejection, but then Remus walked up to Sirius and pulled him up by the collar, and said, _‘I lovesh you too,’_ and then he kissed him—”

“Stop.” said Draco, sorrowfully. “Please.” 

His crush on Remus had petered out with age, but Draco still cared about him very much. And, Sirius, well, he was a _vagabond,_ basically. 

Lily smiled and patted Draco consolingly on the arm. “Let me get you some tea.”

While Lily got him some tea, Draco checked his phone.

Ugly cow: 

_Ur not even 5% attractive enough to be ur mother’s son._

Draco nodded at his phone screen.

Me: 

_Tru dat._

“Here’s your tea.” Lily said.

“Thanks Lily,” Draco grinned, and then he looked behind her and he got a glimpse of Harry Fucking Potter walking out of the kitchen, and he stopped grinning. _God, why is he still here._

Lily followed his line of sight. She asked Draco, “Do you know him?”

“No.” said Draco. And then, at Lily’s honest gaze, admitted, haltingly. “Ugh, yes, unwillingly.”

Lily nodded at Potter, “He seems like such a nice boy,”

“Yeah, well,”

“You don’t like him?” Lily asked.

Draco sipped his tea, “We don’t have the best relationship, no.”

“Oh?” said Lily, “I can’t imagine why, you both seem such lovely boys.”

Draco sipped some more tea, “I tried making friends with him the first time we met. He’s the one who rejected my friendship.” Draco sipped again, “This is lovely tea, by the way, it’s exactly how I take it.”

“I see.” Lily smiled, “Why did he reject it?”

“Oh, who knows.” Draco said, badtemperedly. “Probably thought himself too good for me or something.”

“Really?” frowned Lily, “But he seems like such a nice boy,”

“There was,” Draco scowled at his tea. “some insulting involved, on my part, I suppose.”

“You insulted him the first time you met him?” Lily asked, incredulous.

“I didn’t insult _him._ I insulted this other boy, and Potter just—he does this whole _thing—_ it’s this whole sanctimonious ritual, I think he’d physically die if he didn’t—and I turned to Potter, because back then, I was kind of stupid and I thought he was cu— I wanted to be friends with him, maybe, I don’t know—and Potter just basically told me to shove it.” Draco sniffed. “It’s fine. I don’t care or anything. D’you have some more tea.”

“Ah, yeah.” Lily said, after a short pause. “I brought the kettle with me—here.” 

“Cheers,”

“No problem,” she said, “Why did you insult the first boy?”

Draco narrowed his eyes at her, “Are you trying to psycho-analyse me? Because I didn’t consent to being psycho-analysed, just so you know.” 

“I would never,” Lily smiled, very insincerely.

“Right, sure.” Draco laughed.

“So?” Lily probed, “Why did you insult the first boy?”

Draco paused. He sipped his tea quietly. “I wasn’t,” he frowned down at his tea cup, “I wasn’t a very nice person when I was younger. I’m not a very nice person in general.” he admitted. Lily frowned and opened her mouth to argue or something, but Draco just smiled at her kind of helplessly, “It’s fine, I’m working on it. I appreciate the sentiment, though, thank you.” he sipped his tea, “As I was saying, I’m not very nice—as you probably know already, from the stories your son’s told you—”

“Hey, what about reconstructive memory?” Lily asked gently.

 _So he has told her stories about me._ Draco looked at her fondly, “You’re a nice person, Lily. I’m sorry for anything I’ve done to your son, I’m sure he didn’t deserve it. Most people don’t.” Draco pondered over the memory he had from first year, “Although, I suppose the Weasel—oh, that’s the name of the boy I insulted—he kind of did deserve it. We’ve known each other since we were quite young, you see—we went to the same kindergarten and we’re distantly related or something so occasionally I’d see him at family gatherings. We’ve never really gotten along, though, he’s just too, ugh, I don’t know, he’s just so _ginger_ —Oh! Not that there’s anything wrong with gingers, or anything, your hair’s lovely, Lily,” Lily smiled, “Yeah, um, we just don’t get along in general, I suppose. And that, mixed with my general horribleness—well, I basically insulted his family for being poor,” Draco huffed, “Which I’m not proud of, because his family is kind of cool, actually—they’re super big and loud and he has all these siblings, I can’t imagine he’s ever bored—anyway, I insulted him for being poor because I didn’t like him, and—I don’t know—I guess he’d gotten friendly with Potter and he was flaunting it around in everyone’s face, and it kind of irked me.” 

“And Harry stood up for him?”

“Basically.” Draco sniffed.

“Wait,” Lily frowned, “So that’s how your—is that why you don’t like him?”

“Uh, ya?”

“Draco.”

“What? He said he didn’t want to be friends with me.”

“So you decided to be enemies instead.”

“Actually,” drawled Draco, feeling kind of embarrassed now that he’d actually explained everything to a medically trained professional, “We’re arch-nemeses, not enemies.”

“...Right.” said Lily, staring at Draco strangely.

“There’s a difference!”

“Okay.”

“Don’t get all psycho-analysis-y on me!”

Lily laughed, “Okay.”

Draco sniffed. “Okay.”

“So you hate Harry.”

“Yeah, I do.”

Lily refilled Draco’s empty teacup and muttered something under her breath.

“Sorry?”

“Nothing, nothing,” waved Lily, “So why do you hate him? And don’t you say it’s because of what happened when you were both in first-year.”

“No, it’s not because of that.” Draco smiled at her in acquiescence. “I hate Potter because… well, because I’ve always hated him. Because he acts all cool and—well, he’s got this sort of image in school, uhm, I guess he’s kind of the most popular in our year or something, I don’t know— _personally,_ I find the whole concept of school-yard popularity demeaning and largely obstructive to healthy childhood development—but, whatever, yeah, so he’s the most popular in our year and everyone thinks he’s all perfect and whatever, but, he’s _not,_ you know?—actually, you probably don’t, seeing as you’ve just met him.” Draco frowned at Potter as he served another customer, “Look, I know he seems all perfect and good but he’s not. He’s impulsive and hot-tempered, and honestly, I don’t know if you can tell but he’s a lot more reserved than he lets on,”

“I can tell,” Lily smiled softly.

“Right? Well, he hides all of that in school under this whole stupid _facade._ It’s just so stupid—he stands there, with the rugby lads, and the soccer lads and he laughs at their jokes, but he’s not _laughing,_ you know? He’s just, I don’t know, he’s just kind of forcing himself to, whatever, fit in or something. I wouldn’t put it past him to not have realised it himself—to not have realised that he’s forcing himself. He’s pretty thick, I’ll be honest.” Draco flushed a bit, “I meant thick in the skull, not in the arse, in case you were wondering.”

Lily stared at Draco, “He’s forcing himself?”

Draco frowned, “Yeah, I think so.” After a while, he amended, “Well, not around everyone, I don’t think. He does have friends—he’s quite close to Weasel, actually, and also this other girl—her name’s Hermione Granger, maybe you’ve heard of her, she’s the biggest know-it-all in the grade.” Draco sighed as he fiddled with the handle of his cup, “They’re really tight-knit, always have been. I don’t think he ever forces himself around them. It’s just everyone else.” Draco paused before continuing, “I’m not quite sure how he managed it, but he’s somehow built this whole persona for himself, but it’s, well—it’s just too big and pure to fill. No-one’s ever good and happy and sociable all the time—even Potter. Somehow, though, he thinks he’s got to fill up these fucki— oops, sorry! Um, these, well, he thinks he’s got to fill up these metaphorical shoes.” Draco shrugged at Lily’s pained expression, “He just pushes himself and fakes it. He’ll laugh and nod at all the right times, and someone will be like _‘Oh Harry, you’re so perfect,’_ and he’ll be like _‘Oh haha, yes, I am,’”_ Draco had used falsetto for the fake dialogue in order to make Lily laugh again. It didn’t work. She looked down at the table-top in a distressed fashion.

“Are you alright?” Draco asked her, his voice soft.

She nodded, “It’s… I never would have imagined it, looking at him. It made me think of all the things I must not have imagined about my own child.”

Draco winced, “If it makes you feel better, I’m pretty sure Potter is just more reticent than most people. It’s part of his nature, I suppose. Ironic, really, given how he’s all, well, _that.”_ Draco gestured towards where some girl was probably asking Potter for his number. Draco rolled his eyes at Lily, as if to say: _Look at him, what can you do?_ “I’m sure your son’s not as taciturn.”

Lily remained silent for a while. Then, glancing at Potter sadly, she began, “It just made me a bit upset. He’s just a child, after all. I wonder if he’s ever told his mother about, well, everything.”

Draco frowned again, “He probably hasn’t, knowing him.”

Lily smiled miserably. She looked a bit like she wanted to cry. It upset Draco—he had a special spot in his heart for Mothers.

He leant forward to take hold of Lily’s hand. “I mean, it’s not all bad, though,” he began, “Most people—at our age, especially—pretend to be people they’re not to fit in. It’s quite normal, I think. I do it as well—well, not to Potter’s extent, but, uhm—so _what_ if Potter’s version of trying to fit in is incredibly intense? Everything Potter-versioned is on steroids. He’s weird that way. And anyways, I hate to say it, but Potter’s a fighter. He’ll get through this—and, knowing him, he’ll get through it stronger than ever.” Draco squeezed Lily’s hand. “Potter’s the biggest idiot I know, and you know what’s so great about idiots? They’re all stupidly optimistic. All of them are fighters. Honestly, I have no idea how they do it.” Draco smiled at Lily’s smile and repeated, “Potter’s a fighter. He’s the biggest fighter of them all—no, seriously, I would know, we fight everyday, literally—look, d’you see this black eye? Yeah, that was all him.” Draco glanced caustically at Potter and shook his head. “How could he _do_ that to my beautiful face, he’s such a heathen— _what’s_ so funny.”

Lily was laughing, “Nothing—ppppfffft—”

“What.” snapped Draco, feigning outrage, “You don’t think my face is beautiful?”

“No, no, it’s beautiful, it’s—pfffffftt—”

“Wow—Worst. Psychiatrist. Ever.”

Lily laughed outright and hugged Draco across the bar. “You’re darling.”

Draco made a noise of pure outrage, “I am absolutely _not.”_

Lily hugged him tighter, “You absolutely are.”

“No, absolutely _not—”_

“Er.” coughed Potter’s voice.

“We’re having a moment, Potter, go away.” Draco snapped.

“Hugging across the bar isn’t allowed, you’re obstructing business.” Potter’s voice called back, coldly.

Lily let go of Draco and slid back across the bar. “Sorry about that, Harry.”

Potter sighed, “It’s fine, m—”

Lily began coughing violently. Draco frowned at her, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” she turned towards Potter, “You should get back to work now.”

Potter looked at her strangely. He turned towards Draco, “You.”

“What.” Draco returned.

“Don’t say anything unnecessary.”

Draco eyed him. He then turned to Lily, “Once, Potter’s girlfriend tried to hold hands with him in public and he slapped her across the face.”

 _“Malfoy!”_ screeched Potter, _“It was an accident!—_ listen, m— uh, Mrs. um, Evans, uh—oh my _god_ — _listen,_ it was an accident. I wasn’t expecting her to suddenly—er—”

“Attempt normal, everyday affection?” asked Draco, raising an unimpressed eyebrow.

_“Shut. Up.”_

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Did you just tell me to shut up. I could file a complaint to your boss and get you fired.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I absolutely would, just for fun.”

“I hate you.”

“The sentiment is mutual.”

Lily’s laugh interrupted their insult-exchange. “I see.”

Draco turned towards her, “Stop psycho-analysing us, I haven’t consented.”

“Sure.” she said, with all insincerity.

Draco hid a smile, “Is your son as infuriating as you?”

“You know what, I think I should get back to work now,” said Potter, completely unnecessarily because no-one cared.

“You know what, I think you should.” Lily waved him away.

“Well?” Draco repeated, after Potter had left, “Your son?”

Lily smiled at him, “I think you’ll find he’s a thousand times _more_ infuriating than me.”

“I sincerely doubt that.”

Lily laughed, “What were we talking about before we were interrupted?”

“My beautiful face?”

“Pfffft, sure—no, it was, ah! Yes—so, why do you hate Harry? You never finished,”

Draco huffed impatiently, “I hate him because every time I see him I hate myself. Can we talk about something else now?”

Lily stared at him. After a while, “Draco…”

“Oh, don’t.”

“I won’t.”

“You already are!”

Lily huffed, “I can’t help it, I’m a psychiatrist.”

Draco sighed loudly. “D’you have anymore tea.”

“Yeah, here.” she poured him his fourth cup, “Go on then, explain yourself. You’ll feel better afterwards, I promise.”

“Wow, a free consultation, lucky me.” he drawled.

“Yeah, lucky you. Now spit it out.”

Draco sipped some tea. “I get it, okay? I get that a lot of it is—whatever!— _personal insecurities_ and _misplaced anger._ I get it, so you don’t have to psycho-rubbish me. But I can’t help it, alright. Everytime I see him, I just remember the flaws in myself. And I hate him for it. It’s not his fault, exactly, but it’s not _not_ his fault either. No-one asked him to flaunt around everything that I’m not. He does it all by himself. I hate myself when I’m around him, and eventually, I just thought, well, why hate myself when I could just hate him? I already hated him for being annoying and always picking fights with me and, well—the whole first-year thing really got out of hand, we’ve been perpetually horrible to each other over the years—it’s basically second-nature—you saw us just now, didn’t you? That’s us all the time, except just now was a thousand times more civil than usual because I don’t want to swear in front of a lady such as yourself—”

“I’m honoured, Draco.”

“Yeah, whatever—I hated him anyway, and so I thought why not just _really_ hate him? Why not just push all of my self-contempt onto him?—and I _know_ it’s not healthy, or, or—ugh—I get it, okay, I’m quite intelligent, I understand.” Draco shrugged. “It is what it is. I hate him, and I can’t help it. Every time I see him, something in me dies and my day gets a little more horrible. The only thing that makes it a little more manageable is that sometimes I piss him off more than he pisses _me_ off and I know for a fact that I’ve made _his_ day a little more horrible too.”

Lily stared at him.

“I get it! It’s not healthy! Whatever!”

Lily cleared her throat. “Uh, so long as you’re aware”

Draco scowled. He looked around the bar, and then out the window, and then his heart jumped out of his chest because it was completely dark and _fucking shit, he’d been there for way too long._

“What time is it?” he asked Lily, frantically.

“Uhmmm… Twenty past.”

“Twenty past _what exactly.”_

“Twenty past eight.”

Draco laughed mirthlessly, feeling his soul leak out of every one of his open orifices. He had a history test in class tomorrow. He wouldn’t be sleeping tonight.

“Draco?”

Draco turned to Lily, “How much do I owe you?” 

“It’s on the house, since it’s opening day.”

“Right, well, please do tell Chef Court that her bar’s absolutely lovely. It’s been nice getting to speak with you, but I really should be sprinting all the way home now,”

“Oh! Yes, likewise, Draco—do contact me anytime you’d like to talk about anything—”

“Yeah, no, I don’t do stuff like that.”

“You’ve been doing it all evening?—”

“Haha, silly you, okay bye!” Draco began rushing away. He turned backwards quickly to say, “Tell your son I’m sorry I was horrible to him!”

Lily made a complicated face, “Uh—”

Still rushing out while looking backwards, Draco didn’t quite manage to catch himself before he bumped into Potter.

 _“God,_ you incorrigible buffoon, can you do _anything_ right?!” Draco snarled at his surprised face, “Go stick a cactus up your arse.” Then, he waved backwards at Lily, “Bye!”

As he rushed out of the doors, he heard the sound of faint laughter and Lily’s quick, “Bye lovely.” 

* * *

“Shite, I didn’t study for that at all.” Blaise groaned, “Did the formation of NATO come before or after soviet expansion?”

“Fuck if I know,” Draco replied. And then, “Wait, actually, I do know—it came after, as a response to the USSR’s growing influence.”

“You said you didn’t study!”

“I didn’t, it’s causation.”

“Lies!” exclaimed Blaise. And then, muttering to himself, “The fuck is causation?”

Draco stared at Blaise, nonplussed as he pointed at his own face, “Does this look like a well-rested face to you.”

“If you’re not sleeping you’re studying, you lying git.”

Draco rolled his eyes, “All I did was read through the textbook,”

“What the fuck do you mean that’s _all_ you did, what else are you _meant_ to do?”

“Make an annotated timeline? Write up practice questions?”

“You.” said Blaise, “I despise you.”

“No you don’t.” Draco yawned.

“No I don’t.” Blaise agreed. “But if you do well on this test and the rest of us fail I _will_ despise you.”

“What did you talk about in the essay?”

“I made up some bullshit about how the Iron Curtain speech led to the Truman Doctrine.”

“Blaise, you ingenious idiot. The Iron Curtain speech _did_ lead to the Truman Doctrine.”

“Fuck yeah,” Blaise grinned, “I love myself.”

 _“That_ is causation, by the way.”

“No, My Little Draconian Friend, _that_ is genius.”

Draco eyed Blaise contemptuously. “If you do better on this test than me, _I’ll_ despise _you.”_

“That’s not a very healthy mindset, Dracon.” Blaise tutted.

“Oh, says you.”

“We’re not a very healthy people.” Blaise agreed. “Healthy people are overrated, anyway. What say we bet over who does better? Whoever loses has to buy the other a meal.”

 _A date?_ Draco didn’t ask, because it really wasn’t. Blaise, Pansy and him went to Nando's on a weekly basis.

“That’s boring. Whoever loses has to dress up in drag.”

“Oh Draco, just dress up in drag if you want to. You don’t need to subject yourself to the humiliation of losing a bet to find an excuse.”

“Shut up, that’s not what this is about.”

“Whatever you say, Dracon, you little lying git.”

Draco gave Blaise a dirty look and opened his phone. He scrolled through the news headlines. He was pleased, once again, to find that any relevant stories about Jane Court and her new pub were positive. He was even more pleased to find that any sensationalist headlines that _were_ present poked fun at Skeeter and the Daily Prophet. There was no particular news from The Daily Prophet itself. The plan, so far, was working. Now Draco had to observe things for a few days before planning out his next move. He hoped to ruin The Daily Prophet a few weeks before the referendum occurred.

“What’s got you so pleased?” Blaise asked.

Draco clicked his phone shut, “Imagining you in drag.”

“Sure it’s not finally getting the right excuse to wear drag yourself?”

“When I wear drag, it definitely won’t be because I’ve lost to _you_ —hey, wait, is that Looney?”

Blaise squinted towards where Draco was frowning. “Oh crap, what’s she done this time?”

Draco shot him an annoyed look, “She’s done nothing. Everyone just refuses to let her be.”

“Sure,” Blaise lifted his hands in a placating gesture. “It looks like she might be in a bit of trouble, though. What d’you want to do—wait, Draco!”

But Draco didn’t hear the next part—he was too busy striding towards where his second-cousin, Luna Lovegood, was currently being cornered by a group of Arseholes from her year.

“...was the nigglies, was it?” snickered Arsehole #1.

Looney blinked up at Arsehole #1 slowly, “The Nargles, I believe. They’re very fond of knit-wear, but I would like them back, all the same.”

Draco clenched his fist, slowing his stride in order to gather more information about the situation before charging in and potentially making things worse.

“Yeah, the nigglies.” patronised Arsehole #2, “Jesus, you’re absolutely dotty aren’t you.”

“Aren’t we all, in our own way?” Luna asked.

“Fuck no, you crazy bint.” returned Arsehole #1. “Stop posting stuff like this all over school.” he threw a crumpled piece of paper at Luna’s face.

“That wasn’t very nice, how will the Nargles know—”

“If you don’t stop, you might find the nigglies taking more of your stuff. Like those batty vegetables you’re so obsessed with.”

Luna touched her earrings, “I’d really rather they didn’t take my radishes, they’re my favourite.”

Arsehole #1 stepped towards her, “Make sure you’re recording all of this.”

And that’s when Draco noticed Arsehole #3 recording everything with his phone.

Luna, the idiot, didn’t step back from the looming Arseholes, but rather, simply looked up and said, “You can be a little frightening sometimes, can’t you? I noticed when you shook everything out of my bookbag the other day,” she turned her head, “It was quite surprising, I had to take a few moments to calm my inner waves, afterwards—oh, Draco, how are you?” Luna smiled when she noticed Draco, “So nice of you to join us, we were talking about the Nargles taking my things. Although, it seems these people don’t want the Nargles to—Draco? You’re wearing a very scary face, it must be the Wrackspurts.”

Draco made sure his voice was level when he stepped forward towards Luna, “What did the Nargles take, Looney?”

Luna frowned in concentration before answering, “They took some of my clothes—my school sweater and my stripy socks. I wonder if they’re feeling colder now that it’s November?”

Draco nodded, taking another step forward, “Is that all they took?”

“Well, no, they also took my beetles and one my books—the one about the jumping magician—oh, and my favourite turquoise pen.” Luna paused, “I can’t seem to find my shoes, either, but I don’t want to accuse the Nargles of too much. They get offended, if you’re not careful.”

Draco glanced at the snickering Arseholes. He turned back to Luna, irritated, and lowered his voice, “Looney, are you stupid or something?”

Luna frowned at Draco, “I don’t believe so.”

“Looney.” hissed Draco, “The Nargles didn’t take your things, these Arseholes over here did.”

“Really?” Luna turned to the Arseholes, “Did you take my things? I can’t see why you would—oh,” she said, her voice small, “Are you bullying me?”

“Yes, they’re bullying you, you _idiot,”_ Draco grit out in a low tone as the Arseholes howled in laughter in the background, “Why didn’t you _tell_ anyone?!” 

“I thought,” began Luna, her voice still heartbreakingly small, “that maybe they wanted to be friends with me.”

Draco stared at her. He then turned to the Arseholes and, following the fluttering in his chest, threw Arsehole #3’s phone on the floor. It cracked in a very splendid manner.

“Mate, what the fuck?” Arsehole #1 frowned at Arsehole #3. 

Luna blinked slowly at the scene.

“D’you think the Nargles are angry for being framed?” asked Draco, innocently.

Luna smiled up at him softly. “I think it might actually be the Wrackspurts.”

Draco grinned at her and turned insouciantly back to the Arseholes, who were currently pondering over how a phone could break so very completely due to a fall to the ground.

“The Nargles, you see,” began Draco, darkly, “don’t like being fucked around with.” 

He used his powers to pull Arsehole #1’s scarf and wrap it around his head. Pandemonium ensued.

 _“What’s happening?!”_ came the muffled cry of Arsehole #1.

“It—by itself,” Arsehole #4 turned his pale face towards Luna’s guileless stare and gasped in horror. _“The nigglies!”_

_“Fuck!”_

“Behold the wrath of the Nargles, you ungrateful worms.” bellowed Draco above the screaming and general freaking out. 

Arsehole #2 began wringing his hands in anxiety, “Wh— what do we—” he began crossing himself and muttering, _“Forgive us, Heavenly Father, for we have sinne—”_

Draco covered Arsehole #2’s face with his scarf. Arsehole #3 burst into tears at the scene.

“Run.” said Draco.

Luna giggled as the Arseholes fled in terror. “I do hope they’ll return my things now.”

Draco turned to glare down at her. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Barring the obvious, of course.”

Luna smiled at him, “Don’t be angry, Draco, you’ll attract more Wrackspurts—they’re always following you around when you don’t get enough sleep the night before.”

“Does Xenophilius know?” demanded Draco, undeterred, “Why didn’t you _tell_ anyone, Luna? You can’t just do stuff like that!”

Luna wrinkled her nose. “I really did think it was the Nargles.”

Draco stared at her accusingly. “And?”

“And I liked that those people were talking to me.” Luna shrugged a little, “No-one ever really talks to me, they think I’m barmy.”

Draco stamped his foot down on the floor in an embarrassing rush of anger, _“I’ll_ talk to you. Just—just stop entertaining trash.”

Luna stared at him, “But you told me not to speak to you in school, you said that you were embarra—”

“I _know_ what I said.” Draco interrupted, frustrated, “I’m an arsehole. I take it all back. Talk to me in school, Looney.”

“You don’t think I’m crazy?”

“Oh, I think you’re barking mad.” Draco answered, “But so am I, in my own way.”

Luna smiled. 

“Draco!” called Pansy’s shrill voice. “Are you _crazy?”_

 _The irony,_ Draco thought, before he processed the situation and promptly winced. “Any chance the Wrackspurts might spirit me away before Pansy gets here?”

“The chances are low,” Luna looked back at him grimly, “Pansy has red-waves, you see.”

Draco nodded in resignation.

“Have you lost your fucking _mind,_ you irresponsible piece of pointy—oh, hi Looney—what is _wrong_ with you, how could you use your—your— _you know what, Draco Malfoy, don’t make me say it out loud!”_

Draco turned to Pansy. He then glanced at Blaise, who shrugged back at him apologetically. “I didn’t know how to stop you,”

 _The betrayal._ Draco shook his head sadly at the floor.

“Pansy,” he began, “This is all because you have red-waves.”

Luna nodded, from Draco’s side.

Pansy stared at Draco incredulously, “You’re— _what did you just say to me—”_

* * *

After his daily punishment of scrubbing titties over with, Draco collapsed on the backseat of his chauffeured car. He was grateful, at least, that the chauffeur was back. His mother had been very close to spitting actual ice-shards when he’d come back home last night. And now he was double-grounded. Which, honestly, was _so unfair,_ because it’s not even like he’d done anything worthy of being double-grounded, except, he supposed, break the terms of his initial grounding, use his powers in public, try to buy alcohol while wearing his school uniform, stay up all night regardless of his mum’s explicit commands to _not_ pull another all-nighter, and—well, that’s it. It wasn’t _that_ bad. Probably. His mother didn’t even _know_ that he’d used his powers in public and tried to buy alcohol, and what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt Draco. But, well.

Anyways, Draco was happy that the chauffeur was back.

“Welcome back, Maximilian.”

“Thank you, Draco—did you have a nice day at school, today?”

Draco scowled out his window, “No.”

“Was that Potter-fellow rude to you again?”

“Ugh, don’t remind me of him. I had a history test today.”

“Ah, another all-nighter?”

“Yeah, I’m exhausted.”

“They stunt your growth, you know.”

Draco crossed his arms and slumped even further into the backseat. “Yeah, well, bad-grades stunt my self-esteem, and I’d rather be a happy midget than an insecure giant.”

Maximilian laughed and shook his head as he pulled them out of the Hogwarts drive-in.

“Turn on some music, will you?”

Maximilian switched on what Pansy liked to call ‘screeching whale noises.’ 

“Thanks.”

It was another maybe five minutes before Draco remembered his manners.

“How was your daughter’s wedding?”

“It was great,” answered Maximilian, pleasantly surprised, “I didn’t think you cared enough to ask, thank you Draco.”

“I,” sniffed Draco, “Congratulations, by the way.”

“Thank you,” Maximilian returned, a smile in his voice. “Her husband’s an idiot but he’s nice enough, I suppose.”

Draco nodded out the window, “It’s better for her if he’s an idiot, she can manipulate him.”

“Jesus.” Maximilian laughed.

“I’m serious.” Draco said, “It helps to restore the power balance if she can manipulate him—misogyny is the root of marital misconduct, you know.”

“Really?”

“Yeah—turn down the music, please—if he’s an idiot, you don’t really have to worry about her being emotionally abused by him or treated unfairly. It’s important for her to hold the power in her marriage.”

“I’ve never really thought about it that way.” Maximilian said, faintly.

“That’s why you’re divorced, Maximilian.” Draco returned. “And also an idiot. Idiots rarely ever know that they’re being manipulated.”

Maximilian remained silent for a while. And then, “How’s the whole ‘being nicer,’ thing working out for you, by the way?”

“I see what you did there, Maximilian. I’ve taught you well.”

Maximilian sniffed, “And the reason I got divorced wasn’t because I was being manipulated, it was because my ex-husband couldn’t accept that I was transgender, and refused to let me transition.”

“Exactly, see? You married a bastard instead of an idiot, and that’s why your marriage fell apart.”

“We need to work on your definition of ‘nicer,’ Draco.”

“I’m offering you consolation, Maximilian, how much ‘nicer’ can I possibly be?” Draco defended himself, “You don’t have to worry about your daughter now, her idiot-husband won’t be capable of doing anything other than loving and supporting her.”

Maximilian hummed as he slowed the car at the stop sign. He began, a bit anxiously, “What if it turns out he’s _not_ an idiot? Rosie’s simple-minded, she won’t—oh my god—what did you say was the root of marital misconduct again?”

“Misogyny.”

“Rosie won’t even _realise_ that she’s being taken advantage of—”

“Calm down, Maximilian.” commanded Draco, “Rosie an intelligent woman, I’m sure she’s already instilled a healthy amount of fear in her husband’s heart.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah, knowing Rosie—how did he react when he saw her walking down the aisle, by the way?”

“He started crying like a baby, he couldn’t even say his vows properly.”

“And how did he react the first time he met you?”

“He misgendered me by accident a few times but apologised immediately and at length. It was a bit excessive, actually.”

“See?” Draco smiled, “Pure-hearted, emotional, dim-witted—he’s a bonafide idiot. Good on Rosie.”

Maximilian sighed in relief and whirred the car forward as the traffic light changed. “D’you think I should start scouting out divorce lawyers, just in case?”

“Oh, definitely—it’s best to be safe, although I doubt that you’ll need one from what you’ve told me.” Draco hummed as he looked out the window, “You know what, bring them over for lunch the next time Father’s away and I’ll figure out for myself what kind of person he is. If need be, I’ll instil fear in his heart myself.”

Maximilian started laughing, “How very kind of you to emotionally scar him for Rosie’s sake.”

“Oh, child’s play—I’ll get mum to join in, he’ll never dare cross Rosie wrong afterwards.”

“God help Jerry,” Maximilian chuckled.

“Ew, his name is _Jerry?_ That’s so philistine, Rosie can do _so_ much better.”

“Draco,” castigated Maximilian, still laughing. 

“I can’t believe you’re related to someone named _Jerry_ now. Maybe we can bully him into legally changing his name when he comes over,” 

_“Draco.”_ laughed Maximilian.

“Oh come on, think about Rosie. She’s going to have to publicly admit to being married to a man named _Jerry._ Imagine.”

“I don’t think the whole ‘being nicer,’ thing is working out for you very well, Draco.”

“Pah.” said Draco, “Turn the volume back up.”

Draco calmly listened to beautiful screeching whales as he stared out the window. As they drove past a department store, Draco remembered Luna’s missing things. He honestly doubted she’d ever get them back.

“Wait, Maximilian, can we drop by ASDA or something, really quickly?”

“Uh, sorry Draco, your mum, well, she told me you were grounded.”

 _Fuck._ “It’ll be really quick, I promise.”

Maximilian coughed awkwardly, “I’m afraid I can’t go against her direct commands. D’you remember last year? You don’t want to get _triple_ -grounded again, do you?”

“What she doesn’t know—oh for god’s sake, turn off the bloody whales—what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. Or me. Or you.”

“I’m too scared of her to risk being an accomplice.”

Draco sighed disappointedly. “It’s for Looney, Maximilian—some wankers at school stole her stuff.”

 _“What?_ Did she report them?”

“No.” said Draco, sourly, “She thought they were just being friendly.”

“Oh, for god’s _sake.”_

“Exactly. I’ll buy her some things to replace what was stolen.”

Maximilian pursed his lips, “Draco—”

“Oh, come on, it’s for _Looney._ She made you that weird hat when she was five.”

Maximilian groaned. “Fine. _Fine._ But you have to promise it’ll be quick.”

“Cross my heart.”

“Draco. I’m serious.”

“So am I!”

“Right.” Maximilian shot him a skeptical look through the rearview mirror. “I’m pushing all the blame on you if we get caught.”

Draco grinned back at him, “I’d expect nothing less.”

* * *

_What did she say was stolen again?_ Draco racked his memory. Her favourite turquoise pen, her school sweater, her stripy socks. _What else?_ Her book about that crazy jumping magician, her school shoes… oh! And her beetles, whatever that meant. Knowing Luna, it could be anything.

Draco speed-walked through the stationary section, picking up a packet of multicoloured gel pens, and a replica of Looney’s favourite turquoise pen—lost forever, but never forgotten—as well as a yellow coloured version because he thought Looney might like the strangeness of yellow ink.

He picked her up a non-fiction book titled _‘The Most Fascinating Creatures Known to Man, Both Real and Imagined,’_ from the books section, because she read _way_ too much fiction, and at least this was mildly informative.

He pondered over what the fuck he was meant to do about ‘beetles,’ before he remembered her radishes and began to make his way to the miscellaneous knick-knacks section. After a stressful thirty minutes of being stared at strangely by some old woman in the corner, Draco finally found a single green beetle earring. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he cussed, as he felt his phone vibrating in his pocket for what was now the umpteenth time. Maximilian was _such_ a coward in the face of his mum’s ire. 

“There’s another Beetle in there,” called the staring old woman in lovely accented tones, “Don’t fret, child.”

Draco lamented over the state of his life that he was now being consoled by some strange old woman over the existence of beetle earrings. Still though, he appreciated the help.

“Thank you, uh—”

“It’s Misha,”

“Yes, thank you Ms. Misha,” Draco smiled at her politely. 

“No worries, _kushti_.” Misha nodded, “In my tribe, beetles are regarded as auspicious.”

Draco’s curiosity peaked, “Oh? What tribe are you from, if you don’t mind me asking.”

Misha smiled, the creases in her sandalwood skin shifting, “We have many names, but none in your tongue.”

Draco grinned, “That’s so cool.”

Misha smiled wider, “Thank you, _kushti,_ I shall help you search for your beetle in exchange for this compliment.”

“You could always compliment me back,” Draco offered.

Misha laughed, the sound like tinkling wind chimes, “You are a strange and funny child.”

Draco decided to take that as a compliment, “So I’ve been told.” 

Misha and him dug through the big pit of accessories together.

“What do beetles represent in your tribe?” asked Draco after a very short while (because he’d probably _never_ get the chance to meet someone from Misha’s tribe again).

“Intelligence, sometimes.” Misha began, “Luck, other times. In particular moments, _hmmm,_ how do you say—ah, yes—intuition, I believe you call it. The meaning of things is more capricious where I come from.”

“That is so cool.” Draco repeated. “I’m buying these earrings for my cousin, actually. She’s quite intelligent and intuitive, herself. Her earrings got stolen, you see, so she could also do with some luck.” 

“The beetles are fitting,” Misha nodded, “You are a good brother.”

Draco laughed at the irony.

Misha looked at him, her gaze sharp. “I did not say you were nice, I said you were good. There is a fundamental difference.”

Draco got an odd feeling in his chest. He looked at Misha carefully.

Misha smiled at his sudden scrutinisation. “Quite intelligent, as well.”

They searched for the beetle in silence. 

“You knew I was searching for beetles.” said Draco, after a while.

“Yes.” Misha replied, simply.

“That’s why you were staring at me earlier.”

“No.” Misha smiled, “I was staring because you are being followed by what my people call _djinn.”_

Draco felt his pulse speed up slightly, “Are they dangerous.”

“Not in your context.” Misha answered, “They are just attracted to your exhaustion and bad-temper.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Draco laughed, vaguely, mirthlessly.

“Do not be scared, child.” Misha said. “They won’t harm you. It is just rare for so many to follow a single person. It is a show of your powers.”

Draco snapped his eyes to her.

“Do not be scared.” she repeated.

“I’m not.”

“You lie.” Misha smiled.

“Maybe a little,” Draco admitted. After a short silence he continued, “So is this the moment you tell me I’m the chosen one or something?”

Misha burst out laughing, “You talk nonsense, funny child.”

“Oh, come on, _nothing?”_ Draco sulked, “That’s so unfair, I totally thought this was my moment.”

“What gave you that idea?”

“You—well, you were being all cryptic and mysterious and—you know—we did that little thing, there, with the building tension and all.”

Misha cackled gleefully, “You nonsense-child.”

Draco sulked into the accessories. “I’m glad you find my sorrow amusing.”

“Very amusing.” Misha chortled.

“You’re seriously not even going to give me any life-changing advice?” Draco pouted.

“Do not overthink your interactions with beautiful strangers.”

“Oh, very funny.” moped Draco as Misha continued cackling unkindly. “Yes, go ahead, keep laughing at my misfortune. Don’t mind me.”

Misha did continue laughing. For a solid five minutes. That old hag.

“You old hag.” said Draco.

That set her off again for another three minutes.

“Yes, you’ll do well.” Misha smiled, a linger of laughter in her voice.

“Stop being cryptic! You’re getting my hopes up!” scowled Draco, turning away to reject a call on his phone.

“Oh, Draco,” Misha laughed.

Draco frowned, turning back, “How do you know my name?” he asked the empty space in front of him. “Oh, _seriously?_ You’re pulling a cryptic vanishing act on me? Wow, you horrible old woman.”

He scowled down at the accessories in front of him, only to see an incandescent silver beetle earring next to the green beetle earring he’d found earlier.

“I can’t _believe_ you got such a cool exit.” complained Draco, loudly, on the off-chance that she was maybe lingering about. Some spotty bloke gave Draco a strange look. Draco smiled at him coldly, “I’m sorry, are you admiring my beauty? Is that why you’re looking at me?” The spotty-bloke looked away pretty fast-ish after that.

Draco moped as he stared down at the two strange, but nonetheless well matched earrings on the table. He thought he could hear a distant laughter.

* * *

After that strange encounter, it was all Draco could do to speed-walk to the clothes section and pick out things he thought Luna would like: thigh-high striped socks, thigh-high spotted socks, thigh-high blue socks decorated with black ravens. (Looney really liked her socks.)

Draco spotted some black sheers and remembered his bet with Blaise. He put some in his basket. And then he put in a black minidress for good measure. And a pencil skirt, and a frilly button-down, and a pink camisole and— _wow, shopping for women's clothes is so much fun._

For Luna, he found an oversized fuzzy green caterpillar hoodie. He couldn’t, at this moment, do anything about her stolen school shoes and school sweater, so he tried to make up for it with other clothes and also because _shopping for women's clothes is SO much fun, and wow, that colour would go SO well with Looney’s complexion—oooh, and this dress would fit her slender figure SO perfectly, why doesn’t she_ dress _like this normally, her style is_ so _trash, I have to educate her one day—_ Draco abruptly realised that he was holding a mountain of women's clothes in his arms. Chagrined, he put half of them back. 

He kept the other half. Because he refused to be controlled by societal expectations. And also because they were surprisingly nice for department store clothes.

Feeling his phone buzzing incessantly in his pocket, Draco rushed to the check-out. He plucked out a long-haired women’s wig on the way for his bet with Blaise. And then, near sprinting, Draco neatly joined the shortest queue, and in ten minutes he was walking out the store with three full shopping bags. Perhaps he’d gone a little overboard.

His phone buzzed again. Draco dug it out from inside his pocket and winced when he saw the notifications. 32 missed calls and 12 messages from _Maximilian._ The last four said:

Maximilian:  Hurry up!

Maximilian:  Where are you?

Maximilian:  Your mum called. I’m leaving.

Maximilian:  Good luck. _RESTINPEACE.gif._

Draco sighed mournfully. What the fuck was _up_ with this week. He consoled himself that at least he’d gotten Looney some nice beetle earrings. Oh, and that his plan to ruin The Daily Prophet was well underway. And then Draco scrolled through his notifications once again and frowned.

17 missed calls and 40 messages from _Ugly Cow._ The last two messages said:

Ugly Cow:  PICK UP.

Ugly Cow:  I’M GOING TO KILL YOU.

Draco looked at his phone ominously. _What the fuck._ He deliberated just ignoring her.

And then Pansy called again. Draco pressed the answer button and held his phone thirty centimetres away from his ear.

 **_“DRACO MALFOY, WHY WEREN’T YOU PICKING UP YOUR PHONE—”_ **came Pansy’s ear-shattering shriek.

Draco walked slowly to the nearest bus stop. “I was buying stuff for Loone—”

**_“DON’T YOU DARE INTERRUPT ME.”_ **

_Well then._ Draco sighed mournfully.

 **_“OF ALL THE IRRESPONSIBLE, STUPID, IDIOTIC THINGS YOU’VE EVER DONE, THIS IS BY FAR—AND I MEAN,_ ** **_BY FAR_ ** **_—THE ABSOLUTE_ ** **_WORST._ ** **_HOW COULD YOU?!”_ **

Draco swallowed down his rebuttal that ‘stupid’ and ‘idiotic’ were in fact synonyms and using them to describe the same action really just made Pansy seem kind of dim. 

“I thought we got over the moment with Luna at school.” Draco said, instead.

 _“Oh for fu—_ I’m talking about what you did to Rita-fucking-Skeeter!”

Draco’s blood froze.

“How do you know about that?” Draco hushed.

“How do I— _how do I_ **_know?—_ ** _the video’s all over Twitter you_ **_fucking_ ** _knobhead!”_

Draco swore. “Am I in it?”

There was no reply.

“Pansy, listen to me, this is important.” Draco repeated, “Am I in it.” 

“No.” Pansy sulked.

Draco breathed a sigh of relief. “How do you know.”

That set her off again, _“How do I_ **_know?!_ ** _You fucking shit-faced wanker, are you_ **_drunk?—_ **Are you actually drunk, because I can’t see any other reason why you’d actu—”

“Pansy.” interrupted Draco, irritated. “You can abuse me later. Just tell me how you know.”

Pansy cut the phone. Draco sighed irritably and waited. Pansy called again a moment later. He picked up.

“Someone posted a video of a floating fucking pen or something tickling Skeeter’s leg. She’s gone mad over Twitter. She’s been abusing that Janey Court person for hours now, calling her a sorcerer or something. Draco, how _could_ you?—”

“I— _shit!”_ Draco ran a hand through his hair, “I miscalculated how many civilians— _fuck—”_

“You _miscalculated?”_ repeated Pansy, dangerously, “Draco, tell me right now if you’re drunk so that when I beat the shit out of you later I can make sure the pain will stay until you sober up.”

Draco bit his lip as he thought furiously. This video changed everything.

“Pansy, listen, I need help.”

“No fucking _shit_ you need help, you psychopathic—”

“No— _no,_ Pansy, listen, _please,”_ Draco pleaded, “I need your help.”

Something in Draco’s tone must have gotten through to her, because she took a deep breath and said, “What is it.”

Draco sighed a quick breath of relief, “Tell me how people are reacting on Twitter to the video—does anyone believe Skeeter?”

“Some do, yeah. Mostly though people think it’s photoshopped or something. People are taking it as an elaborate joke.”

“And how are people reacting to Court?”

“The ones who believe Skeeter are joining in on the abuse. Fuck, you should see her Twitter, it’s _brutal—”_

“Shit— _shit._ Okay. What exactly has Skeeter been saying?”

“Something about a personal vendetta. She’s been,” Pansy lowered her voice, “she’s been bringing up something about a crack addiction? I don’t know—”

 _“Fuck!”_ This was bad, this was bad. “What else has she been saying?”

“I don’t remember, a whole load of shit—oh, wait, her last few tweets are photos from outside Court’s restaurant, apparently she and her crowd of no-life idiots are there in person.”

Draco closed his eyes briefly. Jane Court flitted through his mind—her nervous tics, her burgeoning smile, how thin she was, and now that Draco thought about it, how much she kind of looked like Luna, a bit. And then he thought of Luna—how she was bullied for no good reason at all, and how she never really had the ability to defend herself properly. And he thought about how all this shit was his fault, just like always.

He had one choice. _‘It is a show of your powers,’_ Misha had said. And with great power comes great responsibility.

“Fuck.” Draco said, again, as he realised that there really was nothing else left to do.

“Draco?” Pansy asked.

“I’ll explain everything later.” Draco said. “Just—listen, thanks,”

“Uh, it—it’s okay?” Pansy replied, disarmed.

“Thanks Pansy,” Draco said, again, “I love you.”

“Draco.” said Pansy. “What the ever-loving _fuck,_ it sounds like you’re leaving for war or something.”

“You ruin everything, you ugly cow.” and Draco cut the phone.

And then he looked up at the sky and sighed. 

And then he shook his head and hailed a passing taxi.

“Knockturn Alley,” Draco told the driver, “The Fair Heart.”

* * *

Of all the times he’d imagined he’d wear drag, behind a dodgy green trash-chute, a few allies away from a middle-class shopping district, with not even _one_ security camera in sight (the amount of potential _safety hazards!)_ , had never really come up. 

But that was life. And life was a steaming pile of shit. And Draco refused—he absolutely _refused—_ to let a steaming pile of shit get the better of him. He was way too awesome for that.

So he took off his school uniform, pulled on first the black sheers, and then the black pencil skirt. And then he put on a frilly red top, and forced himself to put on the weird fucking gigantic-caterpillar-hoodie-thing he’d bought for Looney. Then, he used the scissors in his bag to cut three holes into one of the stripy socks he’d bought for Luna. He then pulled the stripy sock over his head. Lastly, he put on the long, black wig he’d bought as he was rushing out of the department store. And then he stood there, mourning, for the fashion disaster that was his outfit.

And then he snapped out of it, because there were more pressing matters to attend to. 

He stuffed everything back in his school bag (thank _god_ Maximilian had forced him to take it with him in attempt to force him back earlier) and levitated it, along with his shoes and his shopping bags, to the top of one of the buildings that made one side of the dodgy alley that he was currently in.

Then, he sighed, “Fuck my life.”

And then he power-walked stylishly out of the alleyway, because there was shit to fix.

* * *

“Hey, ugly.” Draco called, in a french accent, his voice higher than normal.

Rita-Fucking-Skeeter, the fucking bane of Draco’s existence, turned around.

“Looking for me?” Draco drawled.

Skeeter stared at him. 

“What, never seen beauty before?” Draco asked, “Your poor mirror.”

“Who,” Skeeter spluttered, “might you be.”

Draco pointed his finger at the pen in Skeeter’s pocket and, following the movement of his finger, levitated it out of her pocket to a few metres above her head. Skeeter, and all her moron-followers, stared at it in shocked silence.

Then, _“You!”_ screeched Skeeter.

“Slow, aren’t you?”

“Wh— _sorcery!”_ Skeeter shrieked, her face red, her spittle flying.

“Oh my god, have you been doing this _all afternoon?_ ” Draco asked her, incredulously, letting the pen go and fall to hit Skeeter’s head.

 _“Jane Court!”_ Skeeter shouted, pointing at him triumphantly.

Draco sighed in an exaggerated manner and put a hand on his hip. “Are you, like, dumb?”

_“I’ll sue you for defamation!”_

“Oh?” Draco’s entire demeanour turned abruptly cold. _The fucking gall of this woman._

Skeeter took a nervous step backwards.

And that’s when the door to The Fair Heart opened to reveal a blotchy faced, nervous-looking Jane Court. “Please go home, Ms Skeet—” she stopped speaking when she noticed Draco posing all diva-like in front of Skeeter.

“Sorry about the mix-up, sweetie,” Draco turned to Court, his voice softening involuntarily, “I’ll take care of this idiot for you.”

 _“HA!”_ yelled Skeeter. “Did you all hear that? _‘For you,’_ she said! She’s working for Jane Court!”

“No, you blithering dunderhead.” said Draco, his voice low and colder than ice.

Skeeter paled abruptly. “You’re a man.”

“And you’re a blight on this planet.” Draco returned. “Also, that was rude.”

Skeeter took another step backwards. Then, her face hardened. “You’re working for Jane Court.”

“Are you—” Draco looked at the woman standing next to Skeeter, “Is she actually dumb, or something?”

“I— I don’t—”

“Don’t hurt yourself.” Draco drawled.

_“You’re working for Jane Court!”_

“I’m working for the sake of all that is holy, you idiot-woman.”

“Wh—”

“Have you _seen_ the way you dress?” Draco demanded furiously. “What the fuck is up with your clothes? It’s physically painful to look at.”

“That— that wasn’t very nice!” yelled back Skeeter, her voice choked.

“Oh my god, are you crying?” sneered Draco. “Don’t you dare. Stop it. Right now.”

Skeeter stopped sniffling.

“I’ll make it very clear,” started Draco, loudly, and then he repeated himself when he noticed someone whip out their phone to record him, “I’ll make it very clear to you, Rita Skeeter. I targeted you the other day because you look like a walking trashcan and it was causing me _physical_ pain. The fact that you’re a fucking idiot and blamed poor Jane over there was hilarious until you showed up in _that.”_ Draco pointed ostentatiously at Skeeter’s orange top. _“That,_ darling, is simply _blasphemous.”_ and then Draco pointed at Skeeter’s pen, and following the movement of his hand, levitated it off the ground and tapped her lightly on the nose. _“Comprendre?”_

“Yo— you’re being a—a hypocrite,” Skeeter sniffled pathetically, snot running down her face.

“Oh, you sweet idiot.” Draco laughed cruelly, “Ever heard of _avant-garde?_ No? I didn’t think so.” Draco struck another pose and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Didn’t I tell you to stop crying.”

“I— I’ll sue you!” cried Skeeter. _“I’ll sue you!”_

“Go ahead and try, Rita Skeeter,” Draco challenged, his voice low. “When you fail, you’ll finally get a taste of your own medicine.”

Rita Skeeter burst into tears.

“Karma’s a bitch, isn’t it?” asked Draco, cheerfully.

And that’s when some fucking loser wearing a paper-bag over his face showed up.

“Stop it.” he said, his voice low and gravelly.

“The fuck are you.” Draco asked.

“I—just stop it. Go home.” he turned to Skeeter, “You too, Ms. Skeeter. You’ve done enough.” he pat Skeeter awkwardly on the back.

And Draco kind of _lost it_ at that point because, _what the fuck?_ This woman had spent _hours_ just _abusing_ someone. She did not deserve sympathy right now. No. There’s no way that’s what was happening, when she hadn’t felt even a _modicum_ of what Jane Court—or for that matter, any other of her fucking victims—had felt.

“Who.” repeated Draco, dangerously, “Are you.”

“Just go home!” Paper-bag repeated, more exasperated now. “All of you!”

“No.” Draco said, simply.

Paper-bag looked at him for a moment. And then, “What?”

“No, you fuckwit, I won’t go home.” Draco repeated. “Let go of Skeeter.”

Paper-bag stepped protectively in front of Skeeter. “Liste—”

“No, you twat, _you_ listen.” Draco interrupted. “This is between Skeeter and I. Now get the fuck lost. Right now.”

“I can’t do that.”

“You— _what?”_ Draco hissed. “I’m sorry, I must have misheard—”

“I can’t,” he grit, “do that. I can’t leave you alone with her. It’s not safe.”

And Draco lost his fucking mind.

 _“What did you just say?”_ he seethed, “It’s not safe? For her? With me? Do you even know who she is? She’s spent her entire fucking day abusing an innocent woma—”

“You said it wasn’t about Jane Court,” called Rita Skeeter from the safety of behind the Paper-bag turd.

And _of course_ this is how things were going to end up for Draco. Of course. Because there’s no way he could admit the truth without somehow entangling Court in this entire fucking situation. He couldn’t. So he’d have to incriminate himself. That’s just how things turned out for him, regardless of his intentions.

Feeling waves of anger rolling off of him, Draco replied, calmly, “It’s _not_ about Jane Court, you stupid bitch. It’s about you. And it’s about how much I fucking hate you, and your crass fashion, and your ugly face, and your stupid, fucking guts. Don’t you dare speak without permission to me ever again.”

Skeeter hurried behind Paper-bag. Paper-bag lifted his arms in a protective stance. _This is impossible._

“She’s just an innocent bystander,” Paper-bag started and _was he actually fucking brainless?_

“No, _you imbecile,_ she’s the fucking perpetrator.” grit out Draco.

“No,” replied Paper-bag, “You’re the perpetrator. She’s the victim.”

And Draco couldn’t reply, because that was true, wasn’t it? So, he did the next best thing. He closed his eyes briefly, and he levitated Rita Skeeter’s wig off of her scalp and into Paper-bag’s face.

Skeeter screamed gratifyingly. 

And then everything went to shit. Because her wig caught on instantaneous fire and vanished into ash before it could hit Paper-bag.

Everyone stared at the ashes in silence.

“You have powers.” Draco commented, to Paper-bag.

He didn’t reply.

And then Rita Skeeter began clutching her head and wailing in the background, _“My hair! The Transvestite set my hair on fire!”_

“You’re going to let me take the blame for what you did?” Draco asked Paper-bag.

A moment of further silence. And then, “I’m sorry, Ms. Skeeter. I didn’t realise the thing flying towards me was a wig.”

Rita wailed, _“It’s not a wig! It’s my hair!”_

Draco started laughing. Paper-bag gave Draco what he imagined was a very dirty look.

“Oh, come on.” Draco laughed, into the sound of wailing and sombre silence. And then Draco’s laughter trailed off awkwardly and he coughed, once, “Never-mind.”

“It’s okay, Ms. Skeeter.” Paper-bag consoled. “It doesn’t matter if you’re balding.”

Draco had to try very hard in order to swallow his laughter. He coughed again. From the side, he thought he might have heard stifled laughter.

Skeeter continued wailing. It began to get very very awkward. Paper-bag, it seemed, was emotionally constipated.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” said Draco, crossly, his french accent stronger than ever. “Rita Skeeter.”

She stopped crying in terror.

“Have you ever seen a model cry?” Draco asked her.

She shook her head, tears and snot streaming down her face.

“That’s because models don’t cry in public. It’s what gives them _style._ ” Draco demonstrated by striking a lazy pose, “If you want to stop being a blight on this planet you need to build some inner strength. _Comprendre?”_

Skeeter hiccuped, tears still streaming, her face miserable.

“Oh—fuck’s _sake.”_ Draco cussed. “Skeeter!”

Skeeter looked up at him.

“Confidence is key, understand?” she looked down on the floor. “Skeeter! Look at me!” Skeeter looked back at him. “Repeat after me: Confidence is Key.”

Skeeter repeated after him, “C— confidence is key.”

Draco turned to all the other women in the vicinity. He looked towards Court, her face blank as she stood in front of the restaurant door. Lily was standing at her side, her expression amused.

“Nothing can fuck with you if you believe in yourself. Nothing else matters. Not your hair, not your weight, not your mistakes. Believe in who you are intrinsically and let everyone else suck your dick.” Draco spoke to everyone. “Repeat after me, all of you: Confidence is Key.”

A plethora of _‘Confidence is Key,’s_ arose into the air.

“Louder!” Draco commanded.

A louder, more gratifyingly confident plethora of _‘Confidence is Key,’s_ arose into the air.

Draco glanced quickly at Court and saw that she was smiling. Lily stood beside her, grinning.

Skeeter—thank fuck—had stopped wailing.

Draco eyed her disdainfully. “Fuck off, then. I still hate your guts.”

Paper-bag stood like a guard-dog in front of her as she packed her things and skedaddled away.

Draco eyed him disdainfully as well. “You. I hate your guts, too.”

“I had to protect her.” Paper-bag defended, stiffly.

“You didn’t _have_ to do anything.” Draco accused, putting his hands on his hips.

“Neutrality in situations of injustice is taking the side of the oppressor.” he said. 

_Desmond Tutu,_ thought Draco, and for a moment he was stunned.

“Paper-bag,” began Draco, “You _do_ have a brain. Where was it five minutes ago?”

Paper-bag remained silent.

“Boring.” said Draco, as he used his powers to throw a candy wrapper at Paper-bag’s face.

The candy wrapper burst into flames. Draco grinned.

“Ooh, ooh! Do another trick!” Draco clapped his hands as he threw a pebble this time.

A sudden gust of violent wind threw off it’s trajectory. Draco gasped.

“That—oh my _god—_ can you control _all_ the elements?” and he threw a larger rock.

An earthen wall shot up from the ground to form a quick barricade around Paper-bag.

 _“Awesome,”_ gasped Draco. Then, realising that everyone was staring at him, “I mean—whatever, mediocre.” and he threw an entire trash can, this time.

“Stop it!” shouted Paper-bag, as he did the whole earthen wall thing again. And then all the scattered trash instantaneously set on fire and all that was left was ash and a clean road.

“You.” said Draco. “That was bad for the environment.”

“It was combustible.” he returned.

“You.” admired Draco, as he threw a rock.

“What are you _doing.”_ grit out Paper-bag, as he used his wind again.

“Having fun,” grinned Draco, levitating Paper-bag, and feeling the wind around himself react violently in response. “Isn’t this _fun?”_

“Fuck you.” Paper-bag returned, squirming in the air.

And that is when Draco noticed that Paper-bag’s trousers were really rather tight and his arse was really rather nice. And then Draco was in the air as well.

“Do something else!” yelled Draco, delighted.

“You’re crazy!” Paper-bag yelled back, “Let me down!”

“Not unless you do something cool.” and then, Draco ate his own words because the air around him suddenly started getting colder and ice started forming on his arms and legs. “This. _This._ You’re freezing the water vapour.”

“Let me down!”

Draco tutted and let Paper-bag down.

“You’re a fucking sociopath.” muttered Paper-bag.

“Psychopath.” Draco corrected.

“What?”

“I’m more psychopathic than sociopathic in terms of behaviour.” explained Draco, still in the air, the ice around his limbs spreading. “Typically, sociopaths have milder ASPD, and therefore are more prone to aggressive tendencies. I’m not prone to aggressive tendencies. I’m quite calculated. And therefore, in terms of behaviour, I’m closer to psychopathic than sociopathic.” he stared at a silent Paper-bag for a while, “Of course, I _don’t_ have ASPD, so I’m neither of the two. But just to be accurate.” 

“You’re crazy.” muttered Paper-bag.

Draco sighed in a long-suffering manner. “Do you ever _listen?_ We literally just went over this—okay, you can stop with the ice now.”

“Uh, sorry, no.” said Paper-bag, that bloody traitor, after all the _knowledge_ and _wisdom_ Draco had imparted on him. “You’re potentially a hazard to society.”

“What the fuck, mate.” said Draco.

“I’m turning you in.”

“Um.” said Draco. “No.” and then, lightning quick, he threw another garbage can at Paper-bag. This one hit the target.

While Paper-bag was distracted, Draco levitated some rocks to break the ice around his limbs. Once free, he threw another three garbage cans at Paper-bag. Four garbage cans was apparently Paper-bag’s limit, because that’s when the wind around Draco let up, and Draco fell to the ground. He managed to land on his feet, by some grace of fortune, and wasted a precious minute addressing his raptured audience. 

“Sorry about the mess,” he began, mainly to Court, who was staring back, wide-eyed. “You have my word that Paper-bag will clean it all up. He seems the sanctimonious, stick-up-my-arse, type.” then, he turned briefly in Paper-bag’s general smelly direction, and said, “Paper-bag, this has been horrible! Let’s never do it again!” and then, because he’d never get the chance to say this ever again, “Your personality is kind of fucked, but you have a nice arse!”

And then Draco waved at his audience and began sprinting away as fast as he could. When he turned a corner, he jumped on an abandoned cardboard piece and used it to levitate himself up to the roof of a building. And then, finally alone, he collapsed in exhaustion for a good fifteen minutes.

* * *

“Draco.” his mum opened the door, an arctic tundra in her voice.

“Mum.” said Draco, “Mummy, listen to me, please.”

“No, Draco.” his mum said. “You listen to me.”

“Mummy, please.” said Draco, “It’ll all make sense if you just let me explain myself.”

Draco’s mother stared at him in silence. Then, she shut the door in his face.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, Draco’s mother opened the door again. “I’ll listen to your explanation. Get inside, it’s cold.”

Draco smiled up at her from the floor. “Thank you Mummy.”

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I love you, Mummy.” Draco flattered.

His mother pursed her lips. “I love you too. But you’re still grounded.”

“Triple-grounded?”

His mother glared at him. “Quadruple-grounded. Regardless of your explanation.”

“That’s rather utilitarian—hahaha, never-mind, I love you, Mummy.”

When his father saw him, his face turned, quite literally, scarlet. 

“Where have you been, you irresponsible boy?”

“I can explain myse—”

“I will not listen to any of your explanations, you disappointment of a son.”

Draco felt his face fall, despite his very best efforts. “Sorry father.” 

“Apologising isn’t good enough, Draco—”

“Lucius.” his mum interrupted, her voice zero degrees celsius, her glare absolute zero.

His father startled slightly. “I,” he began, “will be in my room should any of you need me.” and then his father ran away.

Draco grinned at his mum, “Thank you, Mummy.”

His mum looked at him warmly. “You’re still in trouble.”

“Oh, I know.” and then his mum made him some tea and Draco explained himself.

To his absolute surprise, all his punishment (disregarding his first grounding) was revoked.

“I’m proud of you, Draco,” she smiled as she kissed his forehead.

“Even if I made at least three people cry?”

“I’d be proud of you if all you did was flush the toilet after you defecated.”

Draco smiled. His mother loved him very much.

* * *

Pansy’s call woke him up at 1 am. Draco rejected it in a fit of bad temper. He had, after all, pulled an all-nighter the night before.

A notification popped up on his phone screen.

Ugly Cow:  ANSWER

And she called again.

“Fuck you, Pansy.” Draco said, as soon as he had answered.

“Explain.”

“No, you nosy cow, I’m sleep deprived. I’ll explain tomorrow.”

“No. Do it now.”

“Fuck you, Pansy.” and Draco cut the phone.

When she called him again, Draco shut his phone off. 

* * *

Draco had a wet dream.

About Paper-bag.

It was the first time in a long while that he’d dreamt of anyone other than Blaise.

* * *

“Explain.” said Pansy when she saw him, “Before I kill you. Quickly.”

“We’re in public.” said Draco.

“I don’t care.”

“Pansy.” Draco sighed, gesturing towards a couple of boys who were ogling her exposed cleavage.

Pansy turned towards the boys, “In your dreams, darling.” and then she smiled, “Actually, no.” when their faces brightened, she added. “I wouldn’t touch you even if I _was_ in your dreams.”

Draco laughed as the boys hurried away, red faced. “You’re horrible.”

“I get it from you.”

“Yeah, probably.” Draco smiled at her fondly.

Pansy grinned back and put his arm around her shoulders before snaking her own around his waist.

“Let’s not talk about what happened right now, please. I’m exhausted.”

“Okay, fine.” said Pansy, “But only because I’m in a good mood.”

Draco rolled his eyes, “You do realise that it’s because we do things like this that everyone thinks we’re shagging, right?”

“Oh, I know.”

“Pansy,” said Draco, gleefully scandalised. “You’re dating Blaise.”

“Oh, right, about that,” she said, “We’re not dating.”

“What.” Draco gasped.

“We just pretended to so that you’d get over your crush on Blaise.”

 _“What.”_ Draco gasped. “I don’t—”

“Shut up, Draco.”

Draco scowled into the distance.

“Stop sulking or I’ll force you to tell me everything.”

And so Draco had to force himself to stop sulking. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.” Pansy grinned.

“No I don’t.” Draco agreed, unwillingly and after a long silent while. “Why did you tell me about your fake dating Blaise anyway?”

Pansy looked up at him, “I just got a feeling.”

“Care to stop being cryptic and start making sense?”

“I feel that you’re over him. Or you fancy someone else now or something.”

Paper-bag’s butt popped up in Draco’s mind. Draco felt his face heat.

“That’s bullshit.”

“Nah,” she said, “It’s my best-friend’s intuition.”

* * *

Twitter broke. Because of a video that someone had taken of him and Paper-bag. Or more importantly, because of Draco. Draco broke Twitter. He vowed to never let anyone who knew him intimately ever forget.

“I cannot _believe_ you were irresponsible enough to actually—”

“Oh come off it, Pans.” Draco groaned. “I broke Twitter. Come on, let's celebrate.”

“You have to scrub titties today, remember?” Pansy said, because she ruined everything, always.

Draco made a face.

And then Blaise showed up. He sat down across Draco, next to Pansy. Draco found he didn’t really care anymore. The thought made him smile.

“You finally got to cross-dress.” said Blaise to Draco.

“We haven’t gotten our history test back yet, so I wouldn’t get cocky yet, Blazey-bun.”

Blaise pointed his phone screen at Draco. The video that broke Twitter began to play.

“What a sexy drag-queen, If only I could see her face—” began Draco, dedicated to feigning ignorance till his last dying breath.

“Draco.” said Blaise, uncharacteristically serious, “I’ve known you since we were nine. This is you.”

“What are you on about, Blaise?” Draco asked, and it would have been very convincing as well if Pansy hadn’t glared at Draco at the exact same moment and said, “You’re _so_ irresponsible!”

“You’ll be the death of me one day, Pansy Parkinson, mark my words.” Draco grit at her.

Blaise stared at them both, frighteningly sombre.

Draco took a deep breath. “That is me.” 

“I know.” More sombre staring. 

Draco took another deep breath. “I have superpowers.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

“Funny, Blaise.”

Blaise rolled his eyes. Draco was glad for the small crack in the sombre face armour. “I’ve figured for a while now, you’re really not great at hiding it.”

“Well shit.” said Draco, “How many other people do you think know? D’you think Longbottom knows? I think Longbottom knows. He looks at me with terror in his eyes.”

“That’s because you used to bully him viciously back in first year.” Pansy replied. “And second year. And third-year. And fourth. And sometimes even now, when you’re in a bad mood.”

“Ah yes.” said Draco, hit with a sudden wave of awkward guilt.

“Stop changing the subject, Draco.” Blaise said.

Draco sighed. “What else do you want me to say? I have powers. Telekinesis and also mind-control, or mind-bending kind of, I don’t know, I don’t really use the second one.”

“Why didn’t you tell me.”

“It’s meant to be a secret, Blaise. People die for this sort of thing. I wouldn’t have told Pansy either, but there was this incident when we were seven where I accidentally made her believe she was a dog—”

 _“DRACO MALFOY!”_ Pansy yelled.

“Oh shut up, you’re making a scene.” Draco muttered, irritably.

“We made a vow.” Pansy hissed at him. “You wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“Yes, well.” 

“You have to cut off your dick now.”

“I’d rather not, darling.”

“You never use it anyway, I can’t imagine it’d make much difference not having one.” she said, unkindly.

Draco smiled at her. “Yes, I don’t urinate. How did you know?”

“You’ll still have a hole after it’s go—”

“Oh my god, it’s so exhausting being mad at you two,” Blaise complained. “You don’t even pay attention.”

Draco shrugged. “You’d have gotten over it.”

Blaise groaned. “Yes, but you didn’t _know_ that.”

“Oh, we knew.” Pansy said. “Beggars can’t be choosy, after all.”

* * *

Draco forced Blaise and Pansy to accompany him during detention. This meant that they sat next to each other gossiping and making fun of Draco as he engaged in physical labour. Draco immediately regretted forcing them to come. 

“Fuck off, both of you.” he said, for the eleventh time, as he scrubbed at a long green knob.

“But this is the most action you’ll ever get.” Blaise replied. “It’s an emotional milestone, we wouldn’t miss it for the world.” 

“Oh, for fu— okay, fine, go through the headlines then, if you’re going to be here. Tell me what they say.”

“Your wish is my command, My Little Draconian Knob,” Pansy replied. “Lets see… Skeeter, Skeeter, Court, Skeeter, _oooh,_ the new winter fashion—”

“Pansy.” snapped Draco. “Focus.”

“Right, sorry—Court, Immigration Quota—”

“Stop.” said Draco. “Click on Immigration Quota, skim through it and tell me what it says.”

“Fuck no, I haven’t read a book since I was three.”

“Pansy.” said Blaise. “You couldn’t read when you were three.”

“Exactly.” she replied.

“Useless. All of you.” Draco insulted, as he threw Filch’s cloth on the floor and stole Pansy’s phone out of her hands.

The article was a critique. Draco beamed.

“You’re such a loser, Dracon.” Blaise remarked.

“You just realised?” Pansy asked. “I’ve known since we were seven.”

“She’s lying,” said Draco, “She had a huge embarrassing crush on me when we were seven.”

“I hate you, Draco.”

Draco blew her an air-kiss. And then he sort of froze mid-air.

“Draco? Hello?”

The headline:  Superhero and Supervillain break Twitter 

_No,_ thought Draco, in denial. He sat down on the floor.

“Draco?” asked Pansy, concern leaking into her voice.

He clicked on the headline. He read the reporter’s name. And then he cussed.

Rita Skeeter. _Fuck._

“Draco, mate.” called Blaise’s voice. “You alright?” 

The article had dubbed Paper-bag, ‘Golden-boy,’ for his ‘Golden-heart.’ Draco took one look at that sentence, screenshotted the page, and then burst out laughing.

“He’s finally lost it, Blaise.” Pansy muttered.

And then Draco saw what they had nicknamed him.

“You’re fucking kidding me.” he said.

“Use your words, Dracon.” encouraged Blaise, “Come on, you like words.”

“It’s an article about me.” said Draco.

 _“What.”_ said Pansy. “Who wrote it?”

“Rita Skeeter.”

 _“That bitch.”_ snarled Pansy. “You should’ve ruined her when you had the chance.”

“How’s the article?” asked Blaise.

“Sensationalist.”

“English, Dracon.” 

“It’s over-exaggerated bullshit.”

“Right.” said Blaise, “So why the overreaction to the over-exaggerated bullshit?”

“They,” began Draco, haltingly, “called me a supervillain.”

“Let me ruin Skeeter on Twitter.” said Pansy. “I can do it. I can ruin her life.”

“No, it’s fine,” said Draco, “It’s more satisfying to watch her ruin herself.”

“Our little terrifying Dracon.” said Blaise, with glee.

Pansy eyed Draco. She knew him too well. “What else did she say?”

“Nothing.” said Draco.

Pansy looked at him. And then the horrible cow snatched her phone out of his hands.

_“Pansy!”_

She skimmed through the screen, frowned, and then started laughing

“What is it?” Blaise asked.

“They,” said Pansy, in between laughs, “They named—”

 _“Pansy.”_ Draco grit out, in warning.

“They named Draco,” she continued, undeterred. Draco tried to physically restrain her, but alas, “Tranny-pillar.”

“What.” said Blaise.

Draco retreated in sorrow back to his wall in order to continue his physical labour.

 _“Tranny-pillar.”_ Pansy laughed, “As in—oh my _god,_ she's in so much shit— Transvestite Caterpillar.”

And then Blaise started laughing as well.

Draco threw his cloth on the floor. "Stop laughing! It's derogatory!"

"Oh definitely." Pansy agreed. "Skeeter's ruining herself just fine."

Draco sniffed. "Stop laughing, then." And he glared at them until they stopped.

* * *

“Looney, you waited for me.”

“You asked me to, after all.” Looney smiled, slightly.

“That I did.” Draco grinned. “Well, in you go,” he opened the car door for her.

“Luna!” smiled Maximilian, in blatant favouritism. “I missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too, Maximilian.” smiled Luna. “How are you?”

“I’m good.”

Luna hummed. “There are certainly less Wrackspurts around you than last time. Have you tried soaking your fingers in ginger tea before bed?”

“Not yet.”

“You should, it’ll repel the last few.”

“Hello everyone, I’m fine, thank you for asking.” said Draco, “I’ll soak my fingers in ginger tea before bed as well, don’t you worry about me.” 

“Oh Draco, don’t be silly,” giggled Luna, “It won’t work for you.”

“Don’t tell me the Wrackspurts show favouritism as well.”

Luna hummed again, “They like the way you smell, I think.”

“That,” remarked Draco, “is awfully creepy.”

And then they were on their way home.

* * *

“These,” pointed Draco, at a small mound of clothes, “Are the clothes I got for you.”

Luna stared at the clothes.

“The clothes you wear are awful, remind me to teach you how to dress properly one of these days.” He added, as an after-thought, “I bought a hoodie for you as well, but, well, circumstances happened and now I’m kind of stuck with it, somehow.” 

Luna blinked up at him. “Was it the one you wore in the Twitter video?”

“Oh my god.” said Draco.

Luna smiled. “Don’t worry, it was the Dapperblimps who told me. Nothing you said or did gave it away.”

“Looney,” sighed Draco, in wonder, “Oh Looney, you’re kind of amazing, aren’t you?”

“Not really,” Looney shrugged. “I think I’m just normal.”

“No.” said Draco, “You’re amazing.” and then he turned to get the other stuff he’d gotten for her. “I got you a book about fascinating creatures,” he handed her the book first.

“That’s so kind of you, Draco.”

“Yeah, well.” he pulled out the pens next. “I got you gel pens that you can use whenever you want, and then I got you a replica of your favourite turquoise pen, because I don’t trust those arseholes to ever return your stuff—don’t worry about them, by the way, I’ll deal with them sooner or later—”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, Draco. The Nargles are after them, currently.”

“Looney, you do know that the incident at school with all of us was me, right?”

“Oh, I know. But the Nargles really are after them now. I know that for a fact, don’t worry.”

And, after everything, Draco found that he really did believe her. “Good on them. I hope they’re especially cruel.”

Looney giggled. Draco smiled back at her and handed her the yellow version of her favourite turquoise pen.

“This is the yellow version of your favourite turquoise pen.” explained Draco, very unnecessarily, because it was immediately apparent. “I thought you might like to have the yellow version.”

“I do like having it,” she smiled, softly, “Thank you, Draco.”

Draco cleared his throat. “I bought you socks, as well. Thigh high, because they’re the most versatile in terms of how you can wear them. I bought you three kinds, but, well, I kind of had to use one of the stripy kind, so there’s only really two types left.” and he gave her the spotted socks and then he gave her the ones with the ravens.

Luna smiled up at him as she took them.

“And,” began Draco, a bit nervous for no reason that he could tangibly discern, “I got you some beetles,” and he handed her the small box that the cashier had put the two earrings in. He found, for one of the very few moments in his life, that he couldn’t really think of any words to say. So, instead, he watched anxiously as she opened the small box and took out the earrings.

One of the beetles was larger, and the chain it hung on was shorter. It was a rich emerald green colour, and darker, closer to black, around the edges. The other beetle was smaller, on a longer chain, and a brilliant silver, turning iridescent where it caught the light.

Draco eyed Luna’s face. Trying to discern her reaction carefully. He’d never seen Luna ever dislike anything, but there was always a first time for everything.

But Luna—lovely, lovely, Looney—smiled slowly when she saw the beetles. Like the sunrise over a still lake, her smile lit up every single feature on her face. “The Dapperblimps guided you, didn’t they?” she asked.

“You know what,” said Draco, thinking of Misha, “I think maybe they did.”

“They’re beautiful, Draco.” beamed Luna, “I love them.”

“Oh thank _fuck.”_ he exhaled in relief. “Thank fuck, oh my god, I think I would have cried if you didn’t like them.”

“Silly,” Luna giggled.

“I am, aren’t I?”

“You are.” Luna nodded, still smiling.

“You know what, Looney, I think I’m corrupting you. I think being in my company is making you more of an arsehole.”

Luna blinked at Draco. “I’d rather be an arsehole in your company than an angel without.”

And Draco really was silly, because that nearly made him cry.

So he took a few deep breaths and sat down on the floor in front of Luna. And then he took a few more deep breaths because he promptly started losing his nerve.

“It’s alright, Draco.” Luna smiled at him, “Your Wrackspurts will support you.”

“They better,” muttered Draco, “if they’re hanging around all the time, sniffing me free of charge.”

Luna laughed.

“Okay, Looney—Luna—what would you prefer I call you?”

“Anything you wish,”

“Right, okay, I think this situation calls for Luna, what do you think?”

“I’ll ask the Nargles,”

“Sure.”

Draco waited in silence for a while.

“What did the Nargles say?”

“They think that Luna is fitting.”

“Okay, cool.” Draco took a breath, “Luna—wow, that sounds so formal, doesn’t it,”

Luna giggled, “It’s alright, Draco, just say whatever it is you want to say.”

Draco wrinkled his nose at her. “You really are too intelligent for your own good, aren’t you?”

“Maybe sometimes,” Luna admitted, smiling.

“All the time.” Draco corrected. “Always.”

“Draco.” Luna beamed.

“Okay, okay, fine. Luna.” said Draco, “I’m sorry for everything I’ve ever done to you when we were children. I made fun of you and teased you and even ate your dessert and gave you all my carrots. And I said cruel things to you and didn’t behave as a relative should have. I tried to ignore you in school and didn’t stand up for you when—when people were being rude, and that is unforgivable, because I broke the unspoken oath that I was meant to take as your cousin.”

“Oh Draco,” sighed Luna, “There’s no unspoken oath.”

Draco stared at Luna, “My company _is_ making you more arsey, oh my god, Maximilian is going to kill me.”

Luna smiled, “There’s no oath, you silly. You weren’t obligated to do anything. And I was alright with you doing all those things to me when we were children because I liked that you were speaking to me. I was a lonely child.”

“Don’t say that, Luna,” said Draco, sad for Luna’s loss, and angry for his own behaviour, “Don’t say that you were alright with it. It wasn’t alright.”

Luna shrugged, “It wasn’t that bad.”

“It was.”

“You can think of it as that bad if you wish, Draco.” Luna said, “You can blame yourself, if it helps you. But just know that I don’t blame you.”

“Oh Looney,” said Draco, feeling a lump in his throat, “You’re too good to me.”

“I think maybe you’re too horrible to yourself.”

Draco stared at her, “You know, I think maybe you’re too horrible to yourself, too.”

Luna wrinkled her nose, “Do you think my company might be making you more intelligent?”

“Doubtlessly.” said Draco. “Well, this has been adequately sentimental. What do you think?”

“Adequate.” agreed Luna.

“Right. Want to go watch The Looney Toons downstairs?”

“Alright,” Looney smiled.

And Draco spent the rest of the afternoon watching American cartoons with Looney. 

* * *

Like this passed what eventually became quite a pivotal week in Draco’s life. It was a week of frustration, changes and happy welcomes. And also one very unhappy welcome. Draco never really got over the whole ‘Tranny-pillar,’ thing. Luckily, neither did most of the internet—Skeeter was very brutally torn apart.

Draco found the ironies of life beautiful. Karma was such a very charming bitch.

The whole situation was made all the more satisfying when Skeeter nearly lost her job. _'Nearly,'_ because she posted a very public apology to the Trans community about her ignorance—at which point The Daily Prophet started posting all these articles about _'second chances'_ and _'f_ _orgiveness'_ and _'redemption'._ (Those Bloody-Fucking-Hypocrites.)

It's not like Draco didn't understand—he was a big believer in the potential for redemption, after all; it would have been pretty much impossible to live with himself if he wasn't. But Skeeter was a fucking troll who was quite possibly beyond redemption. And also, well, he absolutely hated her guts and had been having so much fun watching her get her just desserts.

Suffice to say, he was a tad disappointed that public outrage had quietened so fast. And quite significantly disappointed when Skeeter re-wrote her fucking article and re-named him _Tacky-pillar._

What the _fuck._ 'Tacky-pillar.' _God,_ Draco hated her _so_ much.

 _"Tacky-Pillar,"_ Pansy howled, her face completely red. _"Draco—tacky—"_

Draco pushed her off her chair. The horrible cow continued to laugh on the floor.

"I could make you live your entire life as a dog." Draco commented, calmly.

"Go for it, Tacky-Pillar." she roared.

"It won't stick." he hissed.

"Oh, it definitely will." Blaise refuted, wiping tears of laughter out of his eyes.

"It _won't."_

When it unfortunately stuck, Draco was followed by so many Wrackspurts that Luna had to stage a physical intervention by sprinkling him with lemon-infused ginger tea. Oddly, it seemed to work. Draco grudgingly accepted the nickname.

And so came to be: Tacky-pillar, The Well-Dressed Transvestite Superpowered Diva. Also known as Draco’s alter-ego. Or, as The Daily Prophet liked to call her, The Psychopathic and Oddly Alluring French Super-villain.

Quite obviously, Draco was hesitant to commit to his super-bodied individual persona. But, well, he kind of had a schedule to follow if he wanted to ruin The Daily Prophet, and Tacky just made it _so_ much easier. The funny thing, Draco found, was that Paper-bag—whoops, _Golden-boy_ (Draco had spent a solid ten minutes laughing in Golden-boy’s face when he’d shown up the second time they’d met)—wound up every single place that Tacky made a huge fuss.

“Well, would you look at that.” Draco drawled. “It’s Golden-boy, what a surprise.” and then, after a satisfying silence, “If any of you can’t tell, I’m being sarcastic. He shows up everywhere I go, this is very expected.”

“I can’t believe you tore down an actual billboard.” Golden-boy castigated. “And stop calling me that.”

“But your heart,” defended Draco, emulating a damsel in distress with his posture, “It’s just so— _golden.”_

“Stop. It.”

“I think not, Golden-boy.”

Golden-boy stared at him for a while before beginning, “Fine then, Tacky-pillar.”

And that is the day that Golden-boy turned out to be not so very gold of heart at all. And that is also the day that Draco ascertained that his arsieness was physically catching, because all these coincidental moral corruptions just didn’t add up otherwise.

Anyways, so Draco continued to fuck shit up, and The Daily Prophet continued to be mocked. Eventually, the mocking spread to their content rather than just their barmy reporters. And, well, following the domino effect, The Immigration Quota and The Prophet’s biased news coverage came up as well. Draco spent the entire morning grinning when he read a trending Twitter chain about Cornelius Fudge’s manipulation of The Prophet in order to further his own nationalistic political agenda.

And then, Weasel took one look at Draco’s beatific grin and told him he looked like Chucky from Child’s Play and _‘Stop smiling, Ferret, you’re scaring the younger children.’_ And so, Draco flipped him off and spent the entire _day_ grinning—especially so at passing younger children. Because fuck Weasel. 

Draco also continued persevering in his fight towards Being Nicer, despite what many very rude people seemed to think.

Around the end of February, his father went to the US for a business trip and Draco invited Maximilian, Rosie, and her unfortunately named husband, Jerry, over for lunch. Suffice to say, Jerry was, indeed, an idiot. Though his mum and him instilled fear in his heart, all the same—it’s always better to be safe than sorry, after all. Draco also nearly managed to bully Jerry into legally changing his name to Jerome, but then Rosie laughed and called Draco funny and Draco kind of didn’t have the heart to tell her that he was being serious so he let it go.

He continued visiting The Fair Heart, from time to time. It was nice to see Court make it her own place. After all the noise during the opening, The Fair Heart had ultimately gotten loads of good publicity, so it ended up being quite a popular niche establishment. Draco even had a few conversations with Court herself, who turned out to be exactly as ambitious, and even nicer than Draco had imagined. To his surprise, Court started dating Arnold—Skeeter’s old photographer, of all people—and the experience seemed to make her even happier than before.

So, well, yes. Draco coincidentally met Lily at The Fair Heart from time to time, as well. Thankfully, Potter had stopped working there after the first time Draco had seen him during the opening, so they could gossip about him quite openly. Draco found he quite liked Lily, so he often persevered to drive the conversation away from Potter and towards other genuinely interesting things, such as Lily’s job. He learnt quite a lot about human behaviour, this way.

Maybe it was all the catharsis he was achieving through his conversations with Lily, maybe it was the odd balance Tacky-pillar had brought to his life, or maybe it was Golden-boy’s nice butt, but, well, Draco found his rather obsessive hatred for Potter begin to ebb. He stopped picking fights quite so often, and found that the jealousy wasn’t really as big of a deal as before. Sometimes, him and Lily would even talk about Golden-boy and how he was so insufferable but had such a very nice bottom. But then, Lily said that she was old enough to probably be Golden-boy’s mother, and speaking about the attractiveness of his bottom was making her uncomfortable so they stopped.

The Arseholes did actually manage to give back some of Looney’s stuff. Oddly, they all became avid members of the new Nargle Protection Club at school. They tried to get Looney to join, but then Draco overheard and he kind of just stared at them until—Arsehole #3, if Draco was recalling correctly—burst into tears. Then, Looney smiled and forgave them, or tried to forgive them except Draco intercepted and stepped in front of her to tell the Arseholes that they now had an irrevocable blood vendetta between their families and did they know that his father was Lucius Malfoy, the owner of Malfoy Enterprises? Arsehole #2 burst into tears as well. And then they all fled. It was rather hilarious.

“I think they’re quite terrified of you, Draco.” commented Looney, watching them flee.

“Good.” replied Draco. “They’ll never try to fuck with you again.”

And Looney smiled at him.

And then— _and then—_ Pansy Bitch-face Parkinson started looking at Looney strangely and Draco knew _exactly_ what that look meant because he’d once been the unfortunate recipient of that very look himself.

“No.” he said, simply, to Pansy.

“I don’t know what you’re on about,” Pansy returned.

“Ha!” he laughed, mockingly, “Sure. The answer’s still No.”

“I haven’t,” she grit out, “asked you anything.”

“And you never will, either, because the answer will always, unequivocally, be No.”

So that happened.

Then, just before GCSEs began, came the referendum. Draco pleaded sick to his mother so that he could stay home and keep an eye on things because this would quite possibly decide the very _future_ of his country. His mum sighed “Draco,” and so he was forced to go to school.

Still though, he kept an eye on the figures over the two stressful weeks. And it turns out things didn’t always go according to plan because the deadline for the referendum was extended. Quite a lacklustre ending, but Draco would take what he could get. And anyways, it wasn’t an ending at all, it was just a postponement. 

Then: GCSEs. Draco killed himself studying.

When they were over, Pansy, Blaise, Theo, Millie, Vince, Daphne, Greg and him snuck into a bar and got very splendidly pissed. The evening was glorious. The morning after was agony. But, well, the circle of life and all.

Throughout it all Potter continued to be himself. This meant that he continued to be the star of the football team, and the most popular in the year. He even broke up with his girlfriend, which was endlessly entertaining for Draco in the weeks afterwards when he witnessed them both awkwardly avoiding each other in the corridors. But, well, that was all, really. Draco didn’t cuss at Potter every time anything went wrong. He only really cussed at Potter when something very significant went wrong, so he was making startling progress.

In the summer between fifth and sixth year, Draco had such an open expanse of free time that he began making a fuss as Tacky-pillar with the sole purpose of fucking with Golden-boy. It was really very entertaining until Golden-boy had to go and remind Draco that in every single of their super-powered interactions, Golden-boy had technically won. And Draco couldn’t just reveal that in the larger expanse of things, his objective had been largely achieved, because, well, on a personal level, Golden-boy was winning their stupid super-powered fight.

“You’re foiling my plans.” accused Draco.

“Well,” began Golden-boy, “You’re a hazard to society.”

“You, sir,” said Draco, “are a sanctimonious bitch.”

Golden-boy sighed in a long-suffering manner. “Let go of the hostage, Tacky.”

“I think the hostage can make his own decisions, thank you very much.” snided Draco.

“Fine.” Golden-boy sighed again. He directed to the sticky faced boy sitting on a floating sofa next to Draco, “Hello, young child.”

“Hi, Golden-boy!” the child smiled. “I love you!”

 _Honestly,_ Draco rolled his eyes.

“Er, thank you, young child. I, also, um,” replied Golden-boy, “love you?”

“Did you hear that, Tommy? That inflection at the end means that Golden-boy’s lying about loving you.”

“M’name’s Patty.” the child answered, touching Draco with a sticky finger.

“You told me your name was Tommy—why are you so _sticky.”_

“I wanted to be named Tommy but my name is Patty.”

Draco eyed Patty. “You are a lying agent of chaos. I like you, Patty.”

“I don’t like you.” Patty replied, touching Draco with another sticky finger, “You’re the bad-guy.”

“No, no, Patty, I’m a morally-grey diva. Where did you hear that bad-guy nonsense?”

“M’mummy told me.” 

“Your mummy’s a dirty liar—”

“Okay!” Golden-boy interrupted, loudly. “Let him go, now.”

“Suck my arse.” Draco answered, cheerfully.

“You’re saying bad words, Miss Bad-guy.” Patty pat a sticky hand on Draco’s fuzzy-green-hoodie clad arm.

“And you’re gendering me correctly,” observed Draco, pleased, “I like you, Patty.”

“Hmmm. Okay.” said Patty. He turned to Golden-boy, “Are you going to save me?”

Golden-boy sighed, “Yeah.”

“Patty,” said Draco, hurt, “I thought we were having fun.”

“Hmmmm. Maybe.”

“What does that _mean,_ you chaotic malignity.” Draco complimented.

“Tacky. You’re corrupting him.” called Golden-boy.

“Oh, bite me.”

“Patty, do you want to be saved?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Draco laughed in glee.

“Tacky, seriously, you’re corrupting him, stop.”

“Am I corrupting you, Patty?”

“I think so. You smell very posh.”

“It’s the smell of beauty, darling.”

“Patty.” called Golden-boy, from the ground, “Listen to me. Your mum’s very worried for you, you need to come down now.”

Draco had a soft spot for mothers. “Right, well, you’re boring me now, Patty.”

“Okay.” Patty nodded. “Thank you for the candies.”

“You took _candies_ from a _stranger?”_ yelled Golden-boy.

“I’m not a stranger,” Draco rolled his eyes, “I’m the bad-guy, remember?” and then Draco pushed Patty off the sofa. 

Patty fell forward in a delighted squeal before he was caught by a gentle current and deposited into Golden-boy’s arms. Golden-boy let him down on the ground softly.

“Are you alright, Patty?”

“Yeah!” Patty exclaimed, “Can we do that again?”

“Uh, no.” then Golden-boy turned to Draco, “Are you _fucking insane?”_

“Language,” Draco tutted. “Also, you’ve foiled my plans again, I hate you.” 

_“You—”_

“Your butt is nice today too, though,” Draco grinned, before he levitated his floating sofa up, up, and away.

* * *

So that also became a thing that happened—Tacky-pillar’s sporadic plans of chaos and evil for the sake of politics, sometimes, and the sake of fun, others.

Along with the sudden jump in academic pressure at the start of the A levels course in sixth year, and all of Draco’s continued extracurricular involvements, Draco found himself quite excessively overwhelmed. He’d somehow gotten out of being made prefect again, but he found himself becoming the president of the debate team and the co-chair of the chess club (somehow, by the curse of Satan himself, Weasel had traipsed into the chess club one day and beaten every single one of them in a game. Consequently, he was now the other co-chair despite not having stepped foot into the club even one day prior to sixth year). And then football: He’d made the Under 18s B team.

And, well, social obligations grew as well. There were parties to go to and an entire reputation to fix, after all. Draco finally had his first kiss (with Theo, both of them half-way pissed, behind the club that they’d all been partying at), and his acne started clearing up completely (he’d found this new dermatologist and began incorporating a very strict skin-care regime). Beyond that, there was fun to be had. He was sixteen now, for fuck’s sake.

Pansy discovered the beauty of K-pop and roped Draco into learning her favourite dances and streaming her favourite videos. There was this _amazing_ new crime thriller that Draco started to watch on Netflix, about this intelligent serial killer. When Blaise found out that Draco had been watching it he sat Draco down very serious like and explained why murder was never the answer to anything, and was Draco seriously considering throwing his humanity away for the sake of some sick satisfaction?

Pansy had laughed herself sick. No, seriously, she’d eaten too many chips and the sudden movement made her quite literally throw up on herself a little. Looney passed her a napkin. Pansy smiled at her coquettishly as she accepted it. And Draco watched it all happen with narrowed eyes. Blaise started his tirade on why murder was completely unacceptable, once again.

Draco also had to keep up on politics. The referendum had been postponed again, and Draco began to suspect that it would perhaps never occur now. Still, though, there were other matters to attend to. Opposition to the new government sanctioned trans-inclusive toilets, for one.

His relationship with his father just kept getting worse. Snide remarks turned into shouting arguments, and on one particular occasion Draco had even had to sleep in the garden before his mum returned from a late-night business meet-up and set his father straight. It was more difficult for his Father to accept that Draco was queer now that it was increasingly obvious to him that it _wasn’t_ just a phase, actually.

So, all in all, it began getting a bit _too_ overwhelming. Draco was getting, on average, maybe four hours of sleep per night. Luna had to stage another Wrackspurt intervention. And so, with absolutely no regret at all, Draco quit the football team.

And that is when Potter started stalking him. 

He’d just— _show up everywhere._ At first, Draco thought it was an unlucky coincidence, but the third time it happened he realised that Harry James Potter was genuinely, honest to goodness, stalking him.

“Is that,” whispered Pansy, “Potter?”

“Probably.” Draco huffed. He called, loudly, “Oi, Potter! Fuck off!”

“He’s still there,”

“Fuck’s _sake.”_

This was during the period that Draco was excessively sleep deprived and staying in a comfortable position for too long would risk him beginning to fall asleep. He was also, according to Luna, completely smothered in Wrackspurts. In other words, he was pretty much perpetually pissy. He couldn’t even enjoy the satisfaction of Potter being pathetic and creepy. He was just too exhausted.

And after one particularly bad fight with his father—one involving homophobic slurs—and a really shit chemistry test, Draco had had a bit too much. So, during his free period, he walked into the abandoned girl’s bathroom at the far side of the campus and had a bit of a cathartic cry—the whole scrunched up face, snot running down his nose, shebang.

And that is when he glimpsed Potter’s reflection—he was just _standing_ at the entrance like some creepy _fuck_ , _spying_ on Draco as he had a little vulnerable moment. 

“Why.” he croaked. “Why are you here.”

Potter shifted awkwardly, “I didn’t kno—”

“Oh, you never _know,_ do you? You just act without thinking and make everything a thousand times worse.”

“I’m sor—”

_“Don’t you dare pity me.”_

“Malfoy,” said Potter, gently.

And Draco lost it. It must have been the Wrackspurts.

He picked up his bag and flung it at Potter’s body. Potter just stood there as it hit him. Draco laughed a little cruelly and strode forward, twisting his hand around the front of Potter’s shirt as he slammed him against a wall.

_What will hurt him the most?_

“You’re following me around,” snarled Draco, “Nothing else to do? Or maybe you’re bored of all your blind followers.”

“Malf—”

_What will hurt him the most?_

“Granger and Weasel finally got bored with you, did they? It’s so lonely when the only people you’re truly friends with stop talking to you, isn’t it?”

Potter wound his own fist around Draco’s shirt, “Don’t you dare talk about them.”

“Who? Granger? Weasel? Or maybe the Weaselette, the one who’s dating Thomas.”

_“Stop it.”_

_Not yet. What will hurt him the most._

“Or maybe it’s none of them.” Draco narrowed his eyes, lowering his voice harshly, “Maybe it’s just me. What, Potter, you’re not bent, are you?”

 _Bingo._ thought Draco as Potter pushed him away roughly.

That’s the last thing he remembered thinking before losing consciousness.

* * *

He woke up in a hospital bed. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust, “Well, this is all rather dramatic.”

 _“Draco.”_ hushed his mother.

“What happened?” asked Draco, “Was I on the brink of death? That’s so exciting.”

“Draco.” his mum repeated, her voice colder.

“What?” demanded Draco, “Come on.”

“You lost consciousness due to fatigue and sleep deprivation.” explained the doctor. “Your classmate was rather worried.”

“You’re not talking about _Potter,_ are you?”

“Harry Potter, yes.”

 _“Ew.”_ groaned Draco, resting his head back on his pillow. “Mum, that’s so gross.”

“Draco.” his mum repeated.

Draco looked up at her, “I’m sorry for worrying you, Mummy.”

His mum took a small, shuddering sigh. She sat next to his bed and stroked his hair.

Draco glanced at the doctor, “Was it very serious?”

“Oh no, not at all.”

“Oh, come _on.”_ Draco moaned, frustrated.

“Your RBC level is a bit low right now so we’ll get you on some iron supplements. You’ll also have to increase the amount you sleep per night—the recommended daily amount for teenagers is ten hours.”

“What?!” exclaimed Draco, personally affronted by this data.

“Ten hours, Mr. Malfoy.”

“Oh my god, please don’t call me that, my father’s Mr. Malfoy.”

The doctor smiled a little, “Ten hours, Draco.”

“Where’s your proof?” Draco demanded. 

“If you want, I can email you the studies on this matter.”

“Yes, email me—”

“Draco.” his mum sighed, exasperated. “Stop it.”

Draco sulked up at the ceiling.

“Would you like a note for school?” the doctor asked, a smile in her voice.

“Yes.” said Draco, and then, thinking about all the work he’d have to catch up on if he missed school, “Actually, no. There’s no need.”

“Do you recommend he take some time to recover before going back to school?” his mum asked the doctor.

“I’d recommend he take tomorrow off, since it’s the weekend the day after, anyway. That way he’ll get three whole days of rest. No strenuous physical activity for at least two weeks, though.” The doctor tore a post-it off her pocket and wrote a note down, “Come back for a blood test on the 23rd, we’ll monitor if the iron supplements have helped with his RBCs. And Draco.”

“Yes?” Draco sulked.

“I expect ten hours of sleep for the next three days and then at least eight every night. Okay?”

“Oh, I suppose.”

“Increase your intake of complex carbohydrates and stay hydrated. If your responsibilities are getting overwhelming, consider cutting back. Are there any other sources of major stress in your life?”

“Well,” said Draco, unabashed, “My father.”

“Right, well.” began the doctor, perplexed with how to continue.

“Oh, don’t fret, attack is the best defence.” Draco yawned, “He’ll be in here with a coronary before you know it.”

The doctor burst into startled laughter.

 _“Draco.”_ said his mother, trying to hide a smile.

“Didn’t any of my friends come to see me?” asked Draco.

“Oh, well,” coughed the doctor, awkwardly.

“You can let them in now, doctor, thank you,” said his mother.

Draco looked at his mother, “Don’t tell me she’s crying.”

His mother remained silent. Draco groaned.

 _“Draco!”_ Pansy sobbed, as she burst in through the open doors, her face completely red. _“I thought I’d never see your ugly mug again!”_

“Hello, Dracon,” smiled Blaise. “You’re looking the very pinnacle of good health.”

“I tried to tell her that your Wrackspurts would take care of you,” Looney shrugged. “Pansy behaves very irrationally when she’s scared for the people that she loves.”

“Hello Luna,” smiled Draco’s mother.

“Hello Narcissa, I like your necklace.”

“Why thank you, I like your earrings. The mismatched-in-harmony trend is very popular nowadays, isn’t it?”

“I believe so. Draco bought these earrings for me, actually—”

 _“Draco!”_ Pansy sobbed, _“Your ugly mug!”_

“Oh, come here.” commanded Draco, crossly, as he moved around to make space on the bed for Pansy. “Don’t you dare get snot on me.”

The ugly cow got _so_ much snot on him.

* * *

Draco learnt how to take care of himself a bit better after that. He was still averaging around seven hours daily, but it was definitely better than before. Luna stopped having to stage quite so many Wrackspurt interventions.

And life just kind of fell into a nice, pleasant harmony. He still had loads of stuff to do, but every time he found himself getting too overwhelmed, he’d take a quick step back. Breath. Then, he’d reorganise and start again. His skin cleared up, to his immediate joy. He had a growth spurt, to his mother and Maximilian’s immediate joy. He fucked shit up as Tacky-pillar, got to meet Golden-boy and his very nice bum, and watched as the political climate calmed, slowly.

It was nice. Draco was happy. 

Potter was _super_ awkward around him after the whole bathroom tragedy, but he at least stopped stalking Draco around quite so blatantly. And Draco mostly ignored it the other times.

Arnold and Jane got engaged, Rosie and Jerry were expecting their first child, and Draco turned seventeen. Half-way through summer, Lily told him that she was moving to India for a year, so they had a small little good-bye party where they mostly just drank tea and chatted about the crime-thriller on Netflix that Draco was obsessed with. Remus and Sirius moved close-by and began coming for lunch more often, when his father was away.

His father and him still fought, but Draco got better at handling it. He got better at calming his father down, and turning the entire argument into a huge joke. Sometimes, it almost seemed like his father would maybe accept him, finally.

Seventh year started, things got better, surprisingly, not worse. Looney’s fashion finally reached Draco’s standards. The government sanctioned trans-inclusive bathrooms became a thing that happened. Theo kissed him a few more times when they were both drunk. Daphne’s little sister kissed him a few times when they were both drunk. Pansy finally backed off of Luna, so Draco stopped having to raise his shackles every time she’d make a suspicious move. Blaise continued to be his gorgeous self, as always. Strangely, Granger and him even began talking a bit during English. He found she wasn’t so bad. Still a know-it-all, but not so insufferable anymore.

Draco applied to universities. He took the LNAT. He got into his first choice, and his mum held a little celebratory party. He began making final exam timetables and reviewing his content. Chemistry stopped fucking his arse quite so hard, and began making a bit more logical sense. His mocks came close, but he wasn’t stressed. He was prepared. He was chill.

Life was _good._ Draco had begun to realise that he could do this. He could do it. It was okay.

He could achieve his dreams. And there they were, he could see them. His fingertips were grazing them. Did he get stressed sometimes? Yes. Did he still want to punch Potter in the face out of unexplainable anger? Well, Yes. But it wasn’t so bad. It was okay.

And then, in the middle of his A Level History mock exam, some fucking super-idiot cut off all the power in the city. And Draco was not having it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Universal Declaration of Human Rights exists! And so does the first article that Draco refers to.
> 
> Wow, I found this chapter so hard. Especially Draco's characterisation.
> 
> The next chapter is the main plot I swear.
> 
> **EDIT 5/07/2020**: Pychee has brought it to my attention that 'Tranny' is a slur (I didn't know before—the Draco in this fic would 100% pull my zip down). I would like to sincerely apologise if I've offended any of you by originally using it as part of Draco's super-villain name—using derogatory slang wasn't my intention, at all. I've changed the story accordingly (I only really had to change a few words and add a small part). Draco's super-villain—whoops, super-bodied individual—name is now Tacky-pillar.


	3. Partners?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, this last month has been extremely hectic for me. And also I have no idea what I'm doing.

Draco was half-way through his essay on the significance of political extremism in challenging effective government during Hitler’s rise to power in Pre-Nazi Germany when all the lights in the exam hall went off.

Still in exam mode, he squinted his eyes to combat the decreased lighting and continued to write as fast as possible. There were only around thirty minutes left—he was behind schedule, as it was. His brain was running through dates, events and the underlying factors which consequently resulted in the breakdown of the Weimar. He flicked his eyes upwards, quickly, when he registered that something was wrong. The invigilators were gesturing to each other in panic. He flicked his gaze to the side. Half of the people around him had stopped writing. Draco didn’t pay attention to that half. To his mind—in that moment, vicious with stress—that half was the loser half. Draco paid particular attention to the people whose pens continued to fly off their exam papers in hurried stress. He frowned in concentration and threw his mind back to the growing support for extremist ideologies as post-WWI reparations continued to cripple the German public.

“Please remain calm and stop writing as we investigate the source of this power failure,” called one of the invigilators, loudly, from the front of the hall, “We will resume the examination in due time.”

Draco finished off the sentence he’d been writing and put his pen down. He shook the cramp out of his right hand, somewhat irritated with this interruption. Huffing imperceptibly, he slouched backwards in his chair, restless from increased cortisol and an aching brain.

For about ten minutes in relative darkness, Draco remained in exam mode. After about ten minutes in relative darkness—and despite his very best efforts—his mind wandered away from politics in Pre-Nazi Germany. He thought about how close Rosie’s delivery date was, and how he absolutely didn’t trust Jerry to come up with an appropriate name for their child. After maybe twenty minutes in relative darkness, he sighed and began brainstorming potential baby names on the side of his question paper. _Colette? Fiona?—_ Draco was near certain Rosie’s baby was a girl, but just in case— _Charles? Charlie for short._ Draco thought Charles was a very refined name. _And Charlie’s gender-neutral._ Draco thought Charlotte was a very refined name, as well. He smiled to himself in satisfaction.

After thirty minutes in relative darkness, and perhaps half of Draco’s naming ability exhausted, the exam hall was full of hushed murmurs. Blaise turned around in his seat and caught Draco’s eye. Belatedly, Draco got a feeling that something was a tad off about this little interruption.

“Due to technical difficulties, we will have to reschedule the exam.” called an invigilator, in a more harried tone, “Please follow directions and make your way out of the exam hall. Do not speak until you have exited.”

 _My essay,_ Draco gazed in sorrow at his half-finished essay. His eyes then snapped towards the harried invigilator. He stared at her in a scathing manner, feeling quite considerably irritated with the entire situation. 

A half-finished exam was just a waste of time. And Draco was running out of time. Finals were in just under five months—there was barely any time to breathe, and absolutely none to waste. As he tapped his fingers on the desk, he felt his stare take on a glarish quality. 

He knew, of course, that this situation was out of the invigilator’s control. Nonetheless, he found externalising his anger far more satisfying than the alternative. Not that he had any idea what the alternative was. Optimism was to him a very foreign concept. 

He honestly just wanted to get this exam over with. Dragging it all out was causing him endless stress. He awaited instructions and exited the hall with a sombre expression upon his face, sending a dark look towards anyone who dared to appear happy. _Fools,_ he thought, _You won’t be smiling when you fail your finals because you didn’t get the priceless practice you needed._

“You stayed up all night again, didn’t you.” Blaise asked, sending Draco a knowing look.

“I don’t see why that question is relevant.”

“You look like you’re going to bite Patel’s head off.”

Draco sent Patel a withering look. The idiot was beaming.

“She won’t be smiling when she—”

“—fails her finals because she didn’t get the priceless practice she needed.” Blaise finished, yawning, “I wish you were normal, Dracon.”

Draco scowled at him, fighting the yawn which threatened to break on his own face.

“Just kidding, my little draconian wanker.” Blaise threw an arm over his shoulder. “If you were normal you’d never be able to spend as much time with me as you do without hating yourself.”

“Very normal of you, hypocrite.”

Blaise grinned at him, “Normal’s boring, anyway.”

Against his very best efforts, Draco felt his scowl crack around the edges.

“Though it’s probably a happier place, currently.” Blaise added, as an after-thought. “If we were normal, we wouldn’t have studied for nothing.”

Draco’s scowl stopped cracking and cemented itself stronger than before. “We didn’t know it’d all be for nothing.” He sniffed, “And either way, I’d rather be successful than happy.” At Blaise’s wry smile, he added, “Shut up. Happiness is overrated.”

“Nothing in the world can ever kill the twelve-year-old emo inside of you.” Blaise laughed.

Draco looked at him, deadpan. “Better to have been an emo at twelve than a hussy.”

Blaise raised his eyebrows knowingly, “You’re just bitter because you’re sexually frigid.”

“Fuck you, Blaise.”

“Maybe the next time we’re both pissed,” Blaise replied, sporting a rather frightening smile.

Draco sent him a look of horror. “Did you just proposition me.”

“Sorry, were you fully present in the conversation we just had? _You_ propositioned _me._ I just felt pity on you and rejected you kindly in response.”

Draco stared at him. “How the fuck was that a rejection.”

“A vague promise is always a rejection.” he answered, as they both made their way to where they’d left their belongings, in dim lighting. Picking up his bag, Blaise asked, “What’s all this about then, do you think?”

“For fuck’s sake,” Draco groaned. “I wasn’t propositioning you—”

“The power failure, Dracon.” the wanker rolled his eyes.

Draco shrugged, digging through his bag, “The power failed.”

“Wow, _really?_ How did you know—”

Draco broke Blaise off with an irritated sigh, feeling his dam of self-restraint crack, “In case you haven’t noticed, Blaise, I’m not actually omnipotent and therefore don’t know and neither, frankly, give a single flying fuck, so I’d really rather not speak about this when I could instead be ruminating over the incompetence of the school administration over not possessing a single back-up electrical generator for emergencies such as—”

“You’re so pissy when you’re sleep-deprived,” Blaise grinned, fondly. “It makes me want to just kick you in the balls.”

Draco covered his heart with his hands, throwing a saccharine smile Blaise’s way, “And they say romance is dead.”

Blaise blew him a kiss. Draco flicked it away, retching and unlocked his phone.

Ugly Cow: If this is one of ur stupid fucking evil plans I’m going to kill u xx

Ugly Cow: I was in the middle of blow-drying my hair

Ugly Cow: If my hair dries frizzy, you’re dead <3 xxx

Draco frowned at his notifications.

“My mum says the power’s out at home as well,” Blaise furrowed his eyebrows at his own screen.

Draco got a very bad feeling. He dialled Pansy.

“You’re lucky it’s not humid today.” Pansy said, as soon as she picked up.

“Pansy.” said Draco. “I was in a history exam.”

“Wait, what?”

“Blaise, verify what I just said.” 

Blaise took Draco’s phone. “Hi.”

Draco snatched his phone back, “The power’s out at school.” 

“It’s out at home as well.” Pansy returned, a frown in her voice. “Put me on speaker.”

Draco put her on speaker and held the phone between Blaise and him.

“Blaise, how does Brown’s new hair look like in person—”

“Pansy.” snapped Draco. _“Focus.”_

“Ew, you’re being boring. You’re sleep deprived, aren’t you?”

“Particularly so.” Blaise confirmed, before Draco could open his mouth.

“You’re so fucking _stupid,_ Draco. Surely you realise how counterproductive you’re being, in the long-run.”

“Maybe he enjoys the pain of it all.” Blaise suggested, “Perhaps all the years of being clobbered in the head by Potter awakened something inside of him— _not_ my knob, you bellend.”

Blaise dodged being quite permanently harmed by Draco’s approaching knee.

“What does the news say?” Draco asked Pansy, simultaneously glaring at Blaise and steering the conversation, as he always did, back on topic.

“Dunno, haven’t checked.” she returned, “And won’t check either. I’ve nearly used up all my data for the month.”

“Pansy,” said Draco. “It’s the 7th.”

“It’s all the youtube I watched on my way to school.”

“You useless _fuck—”_

“Now, now, Dracon. No swearing before you fulfil your healthy sleeping requirements.” Blaise tutted, as he scrolled through his snapchat.

“What’ve people been posting.” Draco asked him, rubbing the bridge of his nose in mounting frustration.

“Seems like the whole city’s experiencing a power-outage.” Blaise tapped through snapchat stories, “Oh look, some people think Tacky-pillar’s done it.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “As if she’d ever do anything that crass.”

“I thought you’d done it too.” came Pansy’s voice from the phone. 

“That’s only because you’re a raging bitch.” Draco returned.

“Oh?” said Blaise, frowning at his screen. “Wait, what the fuck?”

“Cut the hysterics and spit it out.”

Blaise turned his screen towards Draco. It was a video of some bald old-man on TV. 

“What is it?” Pansy asked, impatiently.

“Check Daphne’s story.” Blaise answered. He then turned to Draco, “Read the caption,”

_Crazy Tacky-pillar wannabe just shut off the entire fucking grid. Fab, guess I’ll just fail physics._

_“That arsehole.”_ Draco seethed, the dam of his self-restraint crumbling rapidly, _“My exams.”_

“Pansy, is he on your TV as well?”

“Let me check.”

How _dare_ this old man just inconvenience the entire fucking population like this. Peoples’ _futures_ were on the line. _Draco’s_ future was on the line. This wasn’t a fucking joke.

“Holy shit.” Pansy breathed. She called to her mum in the background, _“Eomma!_ The TV!”

“What’s he saying?” Blaise asked.

 _This is unforgivable. Completely unforgivable._ Draco felt his nostrils flare.

“He’s asking for Golden-boy—he—wait, _what? Excuse me?—_ he’s talking about a revolution or something. _Eomma, deul-euss-eo?”_

“Revolution?” Blaise looked at Draco.

But Draco’s mind had caught on one word. He asked, impressively composed, “What did he say about Golden-boy?”

“He wants Golden-boy to join him.” came Pansy’s mum—Daisy Parkinson’s—voice.

“Hi, Ajumma.” said Blaise.

“Hello, Blaise.” Daisy—better known to them all as Ajumma—returned.

“He wants _what.”_ asked Draco, deceptively mild for the flare of anger which raged within. Golden-boy was _his_ rival. _His._ Draco’s. Nobody else’s. After a quick calming breath, Draco added, “Hi Ajumma.”

“Oh, Draco.” Ajumma sighed. “Always angry.”

“I’m not angry, Ajumma.”

“Ha!” Pansy laughed at Draco. And then, “Wait, what? _What?_ What is happening. The old-man has _powers?”_

He wants a revolution. He wants Golden-boy. He has powers. Holy fucking shit, this _arsehole._ Draco grit his teeth as the revelation hit him.

“...Draco?” came Pansy’s voice.

“Does he want Tacky-pillar as well.” Draco asked her.

“Uh,” Pansy hesitated, “Well, no.”

The _insult._

This man had fucked with Draco’s exams. He was trying to jeopardise Draco’s future. He wanted powers. He wanted Golden-boy—okay, fine, whatever, everyone wanted Golden-boy. But even if that was the case, why— _why—_ why the _fuck—_ why the ever-loving _fuck—_

“Draco, calm down.” Blaise said.

“I’m calm.” Draco returned, evenly. “Thanks Pansy, Bye Ajumma.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Wait, Draco!—” came Pansy’s frantic voice in the second before Draco cut the phone.

The super-idiot wanted powers? Draco had powers. Draco also had no exams tomorrow. 

More importantly, Draco had a fervent determination to get the priceless practice he needed before finals. And beyond that, he was also a tad irritated. The super-idiot could find his _own_ super-hero, thank you very much—Golden-boy was taken. And anyway, as nice as Golden-boy’s butt was, Draco didn’t trust him to deal with this super-idiot at all. If he wanted something done, he’d have to do it himself. 

It wouldn’t hurt to smack the super-idiot upside the head while he was at it. Overlooking Tacky-Pillar, The Most Well-dressed Super-villain of The Twenty-first Century, was, simply speaking, an atrocity.

“Draco.” Blaise began, uncharacteristically nervous. “Don’t—”

Draco smiled at him.

* * *

As Draco hailed a passing taxi, he only really felt a little guilty.

Blaise had done a lot worse to him in the past. Like that one time last summer, when Draco had passed out at Theo’s house.

It was fine. It should be fine. Probably. 

He’d just ripped Blaise’s school trousers and sprinted away. Blaise had loads of trousers. Draco would buy Blaise new trousers.

Anyway, Blaise probably had spare ones. And if he didn’t, he could borrow some from the lost and found. Or call home.

Blaise would forgive him. Eventually. Probably. It was fine, beggars can’t be choosy.

“Robinson hill,” Draco told the driver.

The driver, rather astute, glanced at him from the rear-view mirror, “The power-plant?”

“Oh no,” Draco smiled, insincerely, “I live behind the old shopping district, I’ll show you the way.”

* * *

Draco waved the taxi good-bye and made sure to walk towards where he’d said his house was located.

When he was certain the taxi had driven off and was far enough away that any actions of his were indiscernible, he scanned his surroundings for security cameras and civilians. He was surrounded by nothing but abandoned buildings. Ascertaining that he was most probably safe, he began stripping at lightning speed. Over the course of his super-bodied individual life, he’d gotten quite adept at speedy costume changes. 

And so, perhaps five minutes later, there Tacky-pillar stood, wearing a mini-fortune. (Some inherent, snob quality in Draco prevented him from accepting department store clothing. _Especially_ if he was being photographed. He’d much rather be _fashionably_ villainized by the press if he was going to be villainized, all the same.)

And so Tacky stood there. Or rather, Draco stood there, wearing Tacky’s clothes, and feeling quite considerably foolish now that the initial adrenaline rush had worn off. 

What had he been _thinking,_ running off to meet some crazy old man with supposed powers? And without the slightest preparation or planning, as well! Perhaps the sleep deprivation really was damaging his brain. He lamented over the inevitable consequences of his impetuous behaviour.

And then he stopped lamenting, because it was a futile activity and there wasn’t time to waste, for fuck’s sake.

He gathered his thoughts for a while. The super-idiot was old, bald, and weird-looking—not so much because of his appearance, but rather his crazed mannerisms. He’d stated that he had powers in the video he broadcasted on TV. The extent of his powers, or even their existence, was unknown. 

Best case scenario:  The super-idiot was a no-life fraud. 

Worst case scenario:  The super-idiot wasn’t a no-life fraud, and was actually more powerful than both Tacky and Golden-boy combined. 

Likely outcomes of the worst case scenario:  Both Golden-boy and Tacky were brutally murdered, and their embarrassing defeat was caught on national television. Draco then spent the next eternity in purgatory being very slowly decimated by Golden-boy’s never-ending moral superiority. _Cherry on top:_ Golden-boy’s ghost form did no justice to his mortal bum.

Draco pushed down a strong desire to continue lamenting. He approximated that the chances of the worst case scenario occurring were really quite low. So low, in fact, that basing his actions on the worse case scenario would be a logical fallacy.

Still though, just to be safe, Draco decided to observe things from afar before taking any decisive action. He wasn’t an idiot, after all. That was Golden-boy’s job.

* * *

Draco thanked the inventors of the internet a thousand times over as he used the blue-prints he’d downloaded online to find his way around the power-plant.

He entered using what he predicted the most obscure entrance would be. Then, he felt the strong urge to set himself on fire. No doubt the security cameras had caught his entry. Draco really wasn’t sure where he’d left his brain. If he were less composed, he would have punched himself in the face. As it was, he cursed at himself in his mind and prayed that the super-idiot had conducted his idiot-fucking-plan alone.

He sighed inaudibly and began walking towards the control-room—where he needed to be in order to gauge the situation accurately. He hoped dearly that fortune would be kind to him on his way.

“Hey!” came a startled voice from behind him.

“Fuck my life.” Draco muttered as he turned around. Tacky waved cheerfully, _“Salut.”_

“Who the _fuck—”_ the pudgy man broke off and stared at Tacky. “Wait, you—you’re that transvestite, aren’t you?”

“That was rather rude of you.” Tacky put her hands on her hips.

The pudgy man stared some more. “You have powers, don’t you?”

“Yes, my darling idiot, I do.” Tacky used her powers to pull at the pudgy man’s pudgy ears.

“You have powers.” the pudgy man repeated.

Draco forced back Tacky’s rebuttal _(“I also have a life. Something that I believe you’re lacking, currently.”)_ and nodded.

The pudgy-man began walking towards Draco. Draco moved his weight to the balls of his feet and eyed the pudgy-man’s movements very carefully, his heart hammering in his chest.

“You’re here for the revolution, aren’t you?” the pudgy man smiled, suddenly. “I’m Avery. I have powers too.”

Draco blinked. “Do you?”

Avery smiled again. “Yeah, look.” and a very solemn expression melted over his face as he spread his hands in front of himself.

And nothing happened.

Draco stared at Avery’s hands. Nothing was happening.

“Give it a moment,” Avery said.

 _Oh, for fuck’s sake._ Forcing patience, Draco gave it a moment.

“There!”

Draco stared at Avery’s hands. His finger-tips were now green. Draco felt a sudden, inappropriate urge to laugh.

“Your fingertips are green.” Draco remarked, instead of laughing.

“My fingertips are green.” Avery repeated, proudly.

 _What the fuck._ “Is this your power?”

“I can also change them to pink, sometimes.” Avery divulged. “Sometimes, I can even change the colour of my whole hand.”

 _What the fuck._ Draco stared at Avery. 

And then Draco smiled, “That’s fascinating!”

Avery smiled back. “Isn’t it?”

“It is.” Draco assured. “Perhaps the most fascinating power I’ve ever seen. Better than mine, by miles.”

“Telekinesis, right?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Draco replied, “But it’s really not as grand as the media portrays it,” _It’s a thousand times better,_ “They really”— _undermine—_ “over-exaggerate my powers.”

Avery nodded, “Yeah, I figured.”

Draco smiled at him. “How very dumb.”

“Sorry?” Avery frowned.

“Oh, did I get the wrong word?” Draco widened his eyes innocently, “English is my second language, I always get mixed-up.”

“Oh, okay. Try to be more careful in the future.”

“How very stupid of you.” Draco smiled, “Oh, sorry, that was the wrong word again, wasn’t it?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Sorry about that. I meant—how do you say—ah, yes—kind. I meant kind. How very kind of you.”

Avery blushed. He _blushed._ Draco’s smile widened.

“So,” Draco continued. “Where is everyone?”

“Oh, right. Everyone’s in the courtyard.” Avery lowered his voice, “Golden-boy’s here as well.”

 _“Is_ he.” Draco said.

“Yeah—uh—but honestly, between you and me, I don’t think he’s here for the revolution,”

“Well, now. What possibly gave you that idea?”

“He shouted _‘I’ll never join you!’_ and tried to set everything on fire.” Avery frowned, “He seemed a bit angry, actually.”

“Wow, Avery, you’re so _stupide!”_ Draco smiled. “That means smart in French, by the way.”

Avery blushed again. Draco simply _adored_ idiot-people.

“I should actually,” Avery coughed, “um, be on my way to help The Dark Lord, right now.”

“Sorry?” said Draco, “The dark what-now.”

“The Dark Lord.” Avery repeated. “He’s the leader of the revolution. He was on television.”

 _“Oooh.”_ said Draco, suppressing the urge to laugh. _“Right._ Right, I remember now. The Dark Lord. Our supreme overlord.”

Avery nodded. “Our supreme overlord.”

Draco smiled at Avery. “But, you know, Avery, I don’t think The Dark Lord _needs_ our help. He’s _The Dark Lord,_ after all. Don’t you think it would be insulting if we took care of Golden-boy for him?”

Avery looked left and right before lowering his voice to a hush, “Golden-boy’s _really_ strong.”

 _“Is_ he, now.”

“Yeah,” Avery whispered, “I think he might be stronger than The Dark Lord.”

 _“Surely_ not!” Draco exclaimed. “That was blasphemy, Avery!”

Avery looked at the floor, shame-faced, and muttered apologies.

“Don’t worry,” Draco patted him on the shoulder, “I won’t tell anyone. Especially not The Dark Lord.”

Avery shot him a scared, grateful look.

“But—and I hate to do this—I need something in return,” Draco continued.

“A—anything.” said Avery, frantically, “I’ll give you anything.”

“That was so stupid of you, Avery.” Draco patted him on the shoulder again.

“You mean kind,” Avery corrected, guilelessly.

“Ah, yes, yes, kind. That was so kind of you, Avery.” Draco took a shot in the dark and trailed his hand rather ambiguously off of Avery’s shoulder.

Avery flushed and looked downwards. Draco smirked.

“So, you’ll give me _anything_ _?”_ Draco asked, his voice soft.

Avery nodded fervently.

Draco smiled in satisfaction.

* * *

Draco stared at the security cameras in the control room, rubbing his temples.

He had spent the last half hour watching Golden-boy defend himself from the most pathetic attacks Draco had ever seen. He hadn’t made even one offensive move. _What the ever-loving fuck is he doing._ Draco sighed irritably.

“Don’t worry, Tacky-pillar,” reassured Avery, “The Dark Lord will get him.”

Draco shot Avery a quick, fake smile.

“Would any of you like some biscuits?” asked Corban—a super-idiot with the power to create biscuits out of nothing. (Corban was here because he’d very unfortunately been granted the job of watching over the control room.)

“Yes, please.” Avery answered.

“No, thank you.” Draco said, his eyes focused on Golden-boy.

What was he _doing?_ Draco strongly suspected his actions had roots in some sanctimonious, noble principle. Something like, _No hurting the weak!_ or _Only picking on people your own size!_ Draco suppressed a groan.

Like this passed another half-hour. Draco deliberated just going home.

But then: “I told you, Tacky-pillar!” exclaimed Avery, “I _told_ you The Dark Lord would get him!”

Draco stared incredulously at the screen. One of the super-fuckers—this one with the power to shoot ropes out of her hand—had gotten Golden-boy by surprise from the back. 

Draco narrowed his eyes at the screen. _What is he playing at?_ In all the time he’d known Golden-boy, never had he gotten the impression that he was easily subdued. And yet here Golden-boy was. Being easily subdued, when he could just set the fucking ropes on fire or something. Draco wanted to hit him very badly.

Draco watched as The Fucker Overlord walked towards Golden-boy. He observed them engage in some sort of conversation. Then, he noted the telltale signs of Golden-boy’s rising temper. Draco wondered whether The Fucker Overlord was irritating Golden-boy on purpose. If he was, he was a more formidable opponent than Draco had initially believed.

“I wonder what they’re talking about.” Draco said, out-loud.

“The Dark Lord’s probably trying to convince Golden-boy to join the revolution.” Corban replied. “With Golden-boy on our side, we’d be invincible.”

 _He’ll never do it,_ Draco wanted to scoff. _He’s too good to ever buy into this bigoted super-power bullshit._

“I wonder if he’ll agree?” said Avery.

Draco opened his mouth to reply and then shut it very rapidly when he observed The Fucker Overlord kick Golden-boy in the stomach. He suppressed a frown.

“That’s a no, then,” Corban sighed. “And I had such high hopes, as well.”

Draco felt his eyes widen as he noted a gigantic snake coming into view on the screen. “Is that a snake?”

“Yeah,” Avery answered, “The Dark Lord can control them.”

 _Fuck._ “Right.” Draco stared at Golden-boy. _Why isn’t he doing anything?_ The snake was getting closer. _Fucking shit on a stick._ “Avery, Corban, I need you to take me to The Dark Lord, now.”

“Sorry?” said Avery.

“I have something really urgent I need to tell him—I just remembered,” Draco faked desperation, “You have to take me to him! Now!” 

Corban and Avery sported twin expressions of shock and confusion.

“Quickly!” Draco shouted. “His life’s in danger!”

“F— follow me!” and Corban began leading the way.

* * *

“My lord!” huffed Corban, red-faced, “My lord! We have an emergency!”

 _“My lord!”_ wheezed Avery, “Your life’s in danger!”

Draco barely glanced at The Fucker Overlord. His eyes fell almost immediately on Golden-boy. He suppressed the growing desire to wring Golden-boy’s neck. What the fuck was he doing? This was all his fault.

Golden-boy gaped back at Draco, “M— _Tacky?”_

“You look like shit.” Draco returned.

“What the fuck are you doing here?!”

Avery laughed triumphantly. “She’s here to join our revolution!” 

Golden-boy stared at Avery. He then glanced questioningly at Draco. Draco’s face remained impassive.

“You’re here to join my revolution?” asked The Fucker Overlord.

“Yes, my lord!” Avery said, “She is!”

“Let the boy speak for himself.”

“Rude.” Draco said. “You’re misgendering me.”

The Fucker Overlord’s face darkened. Perhaps saying that out-loud had been unwise. _Oh, well._

The Fucker Overlord walked slowly towards Draco. Draco noted with satisfaction that the fucker was shorter than him. And also extremely old.

“How are you alive?” Draco wondered, out-loud.

Golden-boy groaned.

“Stop being dramatic.” Draco rolled his eyes.

The Fucker Overlord glowered at Tacky.

Draco smiled at The Fucker Overlord ingratiatingly, “I do apologise if I’ve offended you. English is my second language. I get words mixed up sometimes.”

“Sh— She does, my lord,” Avery supported.

Draco shot Avery a slow smile. Avery blushed in response.

The Fucker Overlord stared at Draco. “Why are you here.”

“She has something urgent to tell you,” answered Corban.

“Speak for yourself.” The Fucker Overlord commanded Draco. 

Draco wanted very dearly to push the fucker over. He imagined it would take quite a considerable amount of effort for the fucker to get back up. Draco sincerely believed that the scene would grant him endless pleasure.

“Speak!” The Fucker repeated.

“Before we begin, my lord,” Draco started, “I wanted to ask why you didn’t mention me in your message on TV,”

The Fucker looked at Draco cruelly. Draco suppressed the urge to kick him.

And then, after a very awkward silence, “I am after his support.” The Fucker said, pointing at Golden-boy.

“Right.” said Draco. “Okay. Uh, he’s really not that great but sure. You do you.”

“Tacky.” hissed Golden-boy, “Shut up.”

“What, did I hurt your feelings?” Draco asked, pleased.

“Why!” The Fucker shouted, “Are you here!”

“I!” answered Draco, “Can shout as well!”

“Oh my god.” Golden-boy whispered.

The Fucker gathered himself and glared at Draco. It really wasn’t that impressive. It was quite pathetic, actually.

“How _dare_ you!” The Fucker shouted.

“God, are you always this loud?” Draco asked him.

Then, in the middle of all the chaos, The Fucker started hissing. 

And Draco burst out laughing. Because what the _fuck._

And then Draco stopped laughing because a huge fucking snake began making it’s way towards him.

“Oh, I see what you’re doing now.” Draco commented. “Right, well. No.” And Draco levitated the snake and threw it at the people behind The Fucker.

Draco smiled sweetly as a chorus of screams arose into the air.

“What are you doing,” Avery whispered, horrified.

“She’s being herself.” Golden-boy sighed.

Draco winked at Avery. Avery blanched in a very satisfying manner.

Strangely, however, The Fucker Overlord didn’t react in the way that Draco had expected him to. Rather, The Fucker Overlord simply gazed at Draco and said, “You are powerful.”

“And you are really very old.” Draco smiled back.

“I will forgive your comments if you join me.” The Fucker Overlord continued.

 _Am I being recruited right now?_ “Sorry?”

“Join me,” The Fucker said, “And we shall revolutionise the world.”

“Ah, yes,” said Draco, “Your ‘revolution.’ I trust you believe that people with super-powers should hold more power than those without?”

“No,” said The Fucker, his eyes shining. “I believe that those without powers should be purged.”

Draco felt a chill go down his spine. There was something very wrong with this person. “I won’t participate in a genocide.”

“I won’t make you kill if you dislike such things. I just need you to support me.”

 _What?_ Draco stared at The Fucker.

“I’ll give you power.” The Fucker continued. “When I have purged the world, I’ll give you as much power as you desire.”

And for a split second, Draco was tempted. But then he remembered Pansy, and Blaise, and Looney. And he looked at The Fucker, and he thought of a man who had wished for something very similar. Who had wished for the world to be purged of anyone he thought undesirable. Who was surrounded by a group of people who thought the same way he did.

And he remembered the suffering—a human catastrophe, one of the most heinous crimes to have ever been committed. He remembered the six million innocents. And he remembered other men, from different times, from different places, but all with the same, purist ideology; all the consequent pain they had inflicted, all the death, the fates perhaps worse than death. All of it, for being different.

He remembered his dreams. 

And then he felt like absolute shit. 

How could he have been tempted, for even a second? 

He had wished for greatness and power for so long, and so fervently, that the simple promise of them—even if the promise was superficial, even if it wasn’t achieved on his own merit—was capable of swaying his determination. He’d chased so long after power and greatness—for himself, for his father’s love—that for a second he’d been willing to throw away the people who had granted him the greatest treasure in all the world: their love. He’d wanted power and greatness so desperately that he feared he’d lost part of his humanity along the way.

Draco felt sick with shame and disgust.

He still yearned for greatness, yes, but he had long since realised that ‘greatness,’ was really just an imagined concept. What did ‘greatness,’ even mean? To chase after greatness was to paint the face of an invisible person. To Draco, the quality of being great was really just the quality of wanting to be better, wanting to be something more than he was right now. He had realised that the achievement of greatness, for greatness’ sake, was empty, because one always believed that they could be better. And chasing ‘better,’ simply for the sake of being better, was a never-ending trap that would eat a person alive. Because if you weren’t better, you weren’t enough. And if you were always chasing better, then you were _never_ enough. There was no satisfaction in chasing greatness, because one would never perceive having achieved it. 

Great people are not created, they simply become, unwittingly.

His ambition still formed a major pillar of his identity. Rather than his _goal,_ however, it was now one of his _qualities._ His new goal was to create a fairer, more just society. For his loved ones, for the sake of diversity. For the sake of himself, even. There was no joy in existing in a purely homogenous world.

And the reminder of all this filled him with such a potent rage that for a moment he found it difficult to breathe. For this rage was directed within, and it ate at his very soul.

Draco had never been one to weather pain silently. He wasn’t a candle, he was tinder. When he burned, he took down everything with him. And currently, he had his eyes set on the fucker who had instigated his self-deprecation.

“You desire power.” The Fucker continued, “Join me, and I’ll give it to you.” 

Draco stared at him quietly.

“My name is Voldemort, and I will create a better world. Join me and we will create a better world together. You will be a part of the future.”

“What do you mean by a better world?” Draco asked.

“A world without undesirables—”

“So a world without you?” Draco interrupted, calmly. “If you’re on a suicide mission, I’d rather you keep the rest of us out of it. You’ve caused me quite a bit of stress by shutting off the power.”

_“You—”_

“In case it wasn’t clear before,” Draco interrupted, again, “I’m not joining your little play-group ‘revolution,’” blatant air-quotes, “Even if it is a suicide mission.”

“Tacky-pillar,” Avery squeaked.

“A world full of people like you makes me physically ill.” Draco continued, to a gaping Moldy-wart, or whatever his name was. “Now turn on the power before I push you on the ground, you disgusting old-man.” 

Moldy-wart began hissing frantically. His gigantic snake began to slither it’s way towards Draco. 

And that is when Golden-boy’s restraints set on instantaneous fire and he stood up.

“Have a nice rest?” Draco asked, his voice somewhat vicious with saccharine sweetness.

“Have fun making an old man cry?” Golden-boy returned, rubbing his wrists.

“That depends on whether he actually cried.” Draco eyed Moldy-wart.

“I saw him blinking back tears.”

“Then, yes.” said Draco, as he levitated the giant fucking snake into the air, “I had fun.”

 _“Nagini!”_ Moldy-wart shouted.

Golden-boy erupted a tall ring of fire around them both.

“Turn on the power.” Draco repeated.

 _“Nagini!”_ shouted Moldy-wart.

“My lord, be careful!” shouted Corban.

“You betrayed me, Tacky-pillar!” shouted Avery.

“I’m sorry, Avery.” lied Draco, “You were just too stupid for your own good.”

“You mean kind!” Avery returned.

“No.” smiled Draco. “I mean stupid, you fucking imbecile.”

 _“Nagini!”_ shrieked Moldy-wart.

“It’s so weird being on this side of things.” Golden-boy muttered, as he formed earthen barricades around Moldy-wart’s people.

“You’re all being too dramatic.” Draco sighed. “Just turn on the fucking power and then get arrested. It’s not that hard.”

 _“You!”_ Moldy-wart shrieked.

“Me!” Draco returned. “Don’t speak to me.”

 _“You!”_ Moldy-wart repeated.

Draco threw Moldy-wart’s snake at his body. “I told you not to speak to me. You’re contaminating the air I breathe.”

 _“I’m going to purge you!”_ Moldy-wart shrieked, on the floor, under his snake. And then he started coughing. Because he was an old man.

“I’m so scared.” Draco said as he watched Moldy-wart choke on his own spit.

 _“Bellatrix!”_ wheezed Moldy-wart, and Draco _froze_ because _what the fuck was his crazy aunt doing here?!_

Bellatrix Lestrange was a certified psychopath who was currently admitted to some fancy psychiatric hospital. Or so Draco had believed, before he’d seen her standing a few places away from Moldy-wart.

Draco felt an incoming headache. What the fuck was his life.

“Make sure you trap her,” he whispered to Golden-boy as he levitated the gigantic snake to the inside of an earthen barricade.

Golden-boy glanced at him quickly before nodding, once.

 _“Bellatrix!”_ wheezed Moldy-wart. _“Quickly!”_

Draco levitated Bellatrix into the air to prevent her from reaching Moldy-wart—who was still, as predicted, on the floor.

“Surrender, now.” called Golden-boy.

Bellatrix turned in the air to make eye-contact with Draco. Draco felt a very uncomfortable shiver go down his spine. He was very grateful for the anonymity granted by his sock-mask.

And then, out of nowhere, a dozen fucking biscuits flew at Draco’s face, and as soon as Bellatrix left Draco’s vision, she fell to the floor. Rubbing the fucking crumbs out of his eyes, he yelled, _“Fuck!_ Make sure you barricade her!”

“Where is she?!” Golden-boy shouted back.

 _“Shit!”_ cussed Draco, his eyes stinging. “Barricade Moldy-wart!”

“He— _where is he?!”_

 **_“Fuck!”_ **shouted Draco. “Barricade Corban!”

“O—okay, he’s there. Done.”

Draco opened his eyes against the sting to witness the aftermath of the fight. Earthen barricades every which way, but no sign of Moldy-wart or Bellatrix.

Draco cussed in French.

* * *

Golden-boy wanted to call the police. This, of course, was the appropriate decision to make. Or it would have been, if Tacky-pillar wasn’t a renowned ‘super-villain.’ Draco wished Golden-boy could think, for once.

“Can you think, for once?” Draco asked him. “How do you think the police are going to react if they storm in here and see me?” 

Golden-boy’s paper-bag face stared at him blankly.

Draco sighed in frustration. “Can you please not be stupid, right now.”

“Can you please not be an arsehole.” Golden-boy shot back, hotly.

“It’s a bit difficult being sparkle-sunshine when you’re surrounded by imbeciles, you understand,” Draco rubbed his head. “Or you don’t. Because you’re the aforementioned imbecile.”

“Fuck you. I don’t know why I try.”

“Try what?” asked Draco, “To have a brain?”

Golden-boy’s voice held a glare, “Stop.”

Draco raised his hands in surrender. He was exhausted. “Well, whatever. I’m leaving. You can call the police if you want.” Draco was going to take a nice hot shower when he got back home. “Make sure to turn on the power.” He got up to leave. “Well, then. Your butt looked quite nice today, as well. Even though I didn’t get to see much of it.” And Draco made his way towards the exit. 

Or he would have, if Golden-boy hadn’t grabbed his wrist.

“Wait.”

Draco stared at him. “E—”

 _“Shut up.”_ Golden-boy snapped.

Draco shut up.

“Moldy-wart’s going to be back.” he said.

“Okay.” Draco stared at him. “So?”

“He’s targeting you.”

Draco sighed. “He’s an old-man.”

“He has comrades.”

“Whatever, Goldie-bum.” Draco yawned.

“He’s targeting both of us.” Golden-boy grit out.

“Just set him on fire the next time you see him, what’s the fucking problem.”

Golden-boy sent him what Draco imagined was a dirty look. “I’m not going to _kill_ him.”

“He tried to kill you first, but, okay, point.” Draco conceded. “Just make sure to isolate him before you barricade him.”

“I,” Golden-boy hesitated. “I don’t know if I can.”

“Excuse me?” said Draco. “Are you having an existential crisis, right now?” 

“You’re—you can strategize well.”

_What is he on about? Is he proposing what I think he’s proposing?_

“I think we should partner up.” he finished.

_Oh my god._

“No.” said Draco.

Golden-boy sighed. “He’s going to keep doing stuff like this.”

 _My exams,_ Draco remembered, suddenly.

“He’s dangerous. Even if he _is_ an old-man.” Golden-boy added. And then Golden-boy’s tone changed slightly, “Why did you come here, anyway?”

“I—didn’t trust you to turn the power back on.” Draco was shocked into honesty, “I was going to just observe from a distance.”

“But you didn’t,” Golden-boy pressed, his hand around Draco’s wrist warm, “You didn’t just observe.”

“Circumstances occurred—” Draco tried.

“You were trying to save me, weren’t you?” a smile in his voice.

“I don’t know if I’d put it quite in that way.” Draco snatched his burning wrist away. “Seeing as how you were feigning even greater incompetence than usual, I assumed you had a death-wish of some sort.”

“So you came down here to save me.”

“Oh, you stupid boy. Is that what it looked like to you?” Draco mocked.

“Yes.”

Draco fought hard to keep hold of his composure. “I just wanted to see your death-wish fulfilled, first-hand—”

“You’re hiding behind your words. You were protecting me.”

“That’s embarrassingly presumptuous of you.” Draco drawled, coldly. “If you must know the truth, I didn’t want your death on my conscience. And that old-man got on my nerves.”

Golden-boy remained silent for a while. And then, “That makes two of us.”

Draco stared at him.

“I don’t want your death on my conscience, either. And from what that old man had been saying, he’s not going to stop. And if he keeps doing stuff like this, I’m not going to stop. And from what I know about you, you’re not going to stop, either.”

“What makes you think you know anything about me.” Draco stared at him, something fluttering dangerously around the back of his mind.

A moment passed in silence.

“You’re my super-villain.” said Golden-boy.

He was hiding something. Draco eyed him. “What are you not saying.”

Another charged silence.

“Let’s partner up. Just for now.” Golden-boy said, eventually. “Just until this ends.”

“I can take them all down by myself.” Draco returned, “So can you. Why are you so adamant on a partnership?”

“You saw him. The way he thinks is dangerous.”

“So?”

“I don’t want your death on my conscience.”

Draco scoffed, “Rest assured, playing hero is _your_ job. The only reason I came here was because the power cut inconvenienced me personally.”

“You don’t want my death on your conscience, either.”

“It won’t be on my conscience if I’m not in immediate vicinity when it occurs.”

“He won’t leave you alone.”

“So I’ll deal with him if he targets me, and you'll deal with him all the other times.”

Golden-boy threw his hands into the air in frustration. “Why can’t you just _cooperate—”_

“Because you’re my superhero.” Draco said. “And wow that was so embarrassing. For both of us.” Draco cringed. “Oh, wow. Okay, I’m leaving. Remember to turn on the power.”

_“Tacky.”_

_“Au-revoir!”_ Draco waved, cheerfully and began to turn away before Golden-boy took hold of his wrist and spun him back around. Draco looked at him, deadpan. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

Golden-boy pulled Draco dangerously closer. Several snapshots of dreamt sexy-times shot across Draco’s vision. His heart hammered in his chest.

 _“Draco Malfoy.”_ Golden-boy whispered.

Draco froze completely. That was his name. His personal identity had been compromised. But worse? Infinitely worse? On the level of the earth spontaneously exploding? That was Harry Potter’s voice. Draco knew it like the back of his hand. And no sound in the world was more familiar than Harry Potter saying his name.

Draco’s eyes snapped to the hand that encircled his wrist. The realisation hit him like a dozen bricks to the head. That was Harry Potter’s hand. The burgeoning heat chilled. He snatched his wrist away.

He stared at Potter, betrayed, angry, insulted, ashamed. How had he not realised?

And then the tinder caught fire and burnt down the entire forest.

Draco wordlessly punched Potter in the stomach and walked away. 

* * *

“Hello, Draco.” said Ajumma, as soon as she had opened the door. “This is a surprise. You never visit during exam season.”

“There has been a bit of a situation.” Draco returned, feeling very much like the world around him was falling apart.

“Oh, dear. Pansy’s upstairs with Luna.”

“Thank you, Ajumma.” Draco said.

She eyed him. “Would you like some tea?” 

“Yes, please.” Draco said.

“Oh, dear.” Ajumma repeated. “Best get upstairs, Draco.”

“Okay, Ajumma.” and Draco made his way upstairs. “Pansy.” he called. “Luna.”

“In here!” Pansy’s voice called back from her room.

Draco walked carefully into Pansy’s room. Luna was painting Pansy’s nails. Pansy was applying a clear second coating. Draco watched them in silence.

“Hello?” Pansy looked up at him inquisitively when he made no move to talk.

“What happened?” Luna frowned. “Sit down, your Wrackspurts—”

“Golden-boy is Harry Potter and I didn’t realise until after he revealed that he knew I was Draco Malfoy which means that not only is Golden-boy Potter but that Potter knew who I was before I knew who _he_ was which means that Potter’s more observant than I am and now that I think about it, I think he’s known for a while, remember sixth year, when he used to stalk me?” The building words poured out of Draco’s mouth rapidly.

Luna and Pansy stared at him blankly for a moment.

 _“What?!”_ Pansy screeched.

“Yes, I believe he’s suspected since then.” Luna agreed. “It’s good that you’re both more honest with each other now.” 

Draco took a breath and continued. “I don’t know how I didn’t _realise_ that he was Golden-boy, it was so bloody obvious that the two most sanctimonious people I know are actually _the same fucking person,_ and he’s not even good at hiding it! Remember that time he came to class with that huge fucking bruise on his arm? A piece of billboard fell on Golden-boy. Or Harry Potter. Because they’re the _same person, apparently._ How could I not have _known._ How could he have known _before_ me? And wait, Luna—did _you_ know that Potter was Golden-boy?”

“Yes,” Luna blinked in confirmation. “I did.”

 _“What?!”_ Pansy repeated.

“And you didn’t tell me?!” Draco demanded.

“We all have our secrets, Draco.” 

“You’re my _cousin!”_

“It wasn’t my secret to tell. I didn’t tell him that you’re Tacky-pillar, either.”

“No.” said Draco, sourly. “He realised it all by himself. Something that I’m apparently incapable of doing.” 

“I need some tea.” Pansy muttered.

“He’s always been particularly sensitive when it comes to you.” Luna commented. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

Draco sent Luna a miserable look. “I’m a _fool,_ Looney.”

A knock sounded on the door, “Tea?” came Ajumma’s voice.

“Thanks _eomma,_ ” Pansy returned, faintly, as she opened the door. 

They watched in silence as Ajumma calmly set down the tray.

“You.” Pansy pointed at Draco, once Ajumma had left. “Drink some tea.”

Draco drank some tea. 

“You’re not a fool, Draco.” Luna said, kindly. “Sometimes, when we’re very busy, things that would have been obvious otherwise escape our notice.”

“You barely have time to breathe.” Pansy agreed. When he made no move to respond she added, “Drink your fucking tea, Draco.”

Draco drank his fucking tea.

All the power instantaneously returned. The lights turned on, Pansy’s blow-dryer began blowing.

“Oh look, Potter’s turned on the power.” Draco commented. “Because he’s Golden-boy. Did you know? Because I didn’t.”

“Draco, you’re being too hard on yourself.” Luna gazed at him. “Harry has less commitments than you do. He’s also particularly obsessive when he believes he’s on to something.”

“Or when it comes to you.” Pansy muttered.

Luna smiled at her.

Draco sipped his tea. They had a point. “You’re right.”

“And it goes both ways.” Pansy Bitch-face Parkinson added, for no other reason than because she was horrible, “You’re equally as obsessive when it comes to him. It’s not—”

“I know it’s not healthy.” Draco snapped.

“Oh, drink your tea.” Pansy returned. “I’m not having this conversation with you when you’re this high-strung.”

Draco glared at her as he sipped his tea.

“You promised me that you would sleep more,” Luna said.

“I—there was too much to memorise. I had a history exam today.”

“It’s the _mock,_ Draco.” Pansy sighed in exasperation. “You’re not meant to kill yourself over it.”

Draco sniffed and sipped his tea.

“Oh, Draco.” said Luna.

“You fucking idiot.” muttered Pansy. “Take a nap on my bed after you’ve finished your tea.”

“I’ve got chem—”

“Take a nap on my bed after you’ve finished your tea or I’m telling Narcissa that you pulled another all-nighter.” Pansy repeated.

Draco grumbled into his tea-cup. And then he took a much-needed nap.

* * *

He awoke disoriented and feeling somehow more tired than before. 

“Time?” he mumbled, blinking the bleariness out of his eyes.

“Quarter past nine,” Pansy replied, “I called Narcissa, you can sleep over.”

“Dinner?” Draco asked.

“Are you hungry?”

“No,” Draco grumbled, “I’m tired.”

“You should eat something, Draco,” came Luna’s voice.

Draco shot upwards. He stared at Luna. “What are you still doing here.”

“I’m sleeping over.”

Draco sent Pansy a piercing look. Pansy raised a bored eyebrow.

“Do you do that often.” Draco questioned Luna.

“Sleep over? Well—”

“What do you want to eat, Draco?” Pansy interrupted.

 _“What are you hiding!”_ Draco shot out of bed.

“Nothing!” Pansy replied. “Stop being neurotic!”

“You seem better,” remarked Looney, “Did you have a restful nap?”

“You’re hiding something!” Draco pointed accusingly at Pansy.

“You’re just paranoid because you didn’t know Golden-boy was Potter!”

Draco sat back down. Perhaps Pansy had a point.

“I think there’s some left-over pasta,” Looney said. “Do you want it?”

“Mmm.” Draco hummed, wrinkling his nose. “I want something sweet.”

“Of course you do,” Pansy muttered. She threw a pile of clothes at him. “Change your clothes.”

And so, slightly better tempered, Draco changed into Pansy’s giant hoody—which was really just normal sized on him—and her sweatpants—which fit around the waist but were rather comically short. And after he’d splashed some water on his face, Draco felt the weight of the long day dissipate, just a little.

* * *

“—and then he asked me to partner with him to take Moldy-wart down and I said no.” Draco said, around his ice-cream.

“And after you said no he told you he was Potter?”

Draco ate another spoonful of vanilla ice-cream and shrugged. “He never told me he was Potter, he just—don’t overreact—he just pulled me to whispering distance and said,” Draco cleared his throat and mimicked Potter, _“Draco Malfoy.”_

“What the _fuck—”_ Pansy started.

 _“Don’t_ overreact.” Draco sent her a stern look.

Pansy took a breath. Luna pat her on the back. It looked like such a very practiced movement.

Draco narrowed his eyes and ate some more ice-cream.

“How do you know for certain that he’s Potter?” Pansy asked.

“I’d recognise his voice anywhere,” Draco continued, half-jokingly, “I hear it calling my name in my deepest, darkest—”

“—fantasies?” Pansy suggested.

 _“—nightmares.”_ Draco finished, glaring at her.

“Right.” Pansy looked at him knowingly.

Draco turned to Luna for help. Luna looked at him knowingly in return, as well.

“I hate you all.” Draco sulked into his ice-cream. “I just _knew,_ okay. It was _so_ obvious _._ I don’t know how it didn’t occur to me before.”

“Right.” Pansy sent him an incredulous look.

“And how did you respond after he’d told you?” Luna asked.

Draco ate another spoonful of ice-cream. He mumbled, “...I punched him in the stomach.”

“Oh my god.” Pansy burst out laughing, “You ran away, didn’t you?”

“Shut up, Pansy.” Draco grumbled.

“Oh, Draco.” sighed Luna.

“How was I _meant_ to react?!” Draco defended.

“What the fuck did he expect would happen if he told you?” Pansy laughed, “That poor idiot boy.”

“Perhaps he was just desperate,” Luna suggested.

“Yeah, because he’s _so_ desperate for my love and affection.” Draco rolled his eyes. “He’s just a knob-head on purpose because he’s awkward with his feelings.”

“No, no, Draco-darling,” Pansy shook her head, “That’s _you,_ remember?”

“You’re _funny,_ Pansy.” Draco returned, not a single trace of humour in his tone.

“I meant perhaps he was desperate about partnering up with you,” Luna smiled at Pansy’s laughter, “This Moldy-wart seems a bit frightening.”

“He was desperate about partnering up with Draco and so he told him that he was Potter?” Pansy laughed, mockingly. “When has Draco ever given anything other than the impression that he hates Potter’s very existence?”

Draco nodded in agreement towards Pansy. “Potter’s so very stupid.”

“He’s a bit single-minded when he’s determined,” Luna said. “I think calling him stupid is going a bit far, though.”

 _“Why,”_ Draco turned to her. “Are you defending him.”

Luna smiled faintly, “He’s my friend.”

“I’m you’re _cousin._ We share the same _blood.”_

“Blood has very little to do with the strength of relationships,” Luna said, simply, “Harry’s very kind. He was one of my first friends.” 

Draco scowled, feeling a bit guilty for having punched Potter. _Stupid Potter and his stupid little acts of kindness that no-one fucking asks for._ “I’d be kind too if I was surrounding by as much admiration as he was.” he said, half-heartedly.

Luna smiled at him, “I think you should talk to him.”

“Can I be present?” Pansy raised a hand.

“No.” said Draco, “Fuck you.”

“But _imagine,”_ Pansy tried, “Imagine the _drama.”_

“There will be no drama.” Draco promised himself, “I will reject his offer of partnership and maybe apologise for punching him in the stomach, depending on my mood.”

“You’ll apologise to Potter.” Pansy raised an eyebrow disbelievingly, “You. To Potter.”

“I said _maybe,_ you horrible cow.” Draco drawled. “Depending on my mood.”

“So you won’t apologise.” 

“Probably not, no.”

Pansy groaned. “There’s going to be _so much drama.”_

Draco glared at her, “There will be no drama.”

* * *

Two days later, as Draco got out of his car on his way to school for his chemistry exam, in order to determine what the _fuck_ had been obstructing traffic for the last hour, he wasn’t thinking of Potter.

When he saw that the obstruction was in fact— _surprise, surprise!_ —Moldy-wart, he _still_ wasn’t thinking of Potter. He was thinking, instead, of very colourful swear-words. And then he was thinking of how the fuck he was going to get Moldy-wart to fuck off.

It was only really when Draco felt an incoming headache and caught a glimpse of Potter’s face in the crowd, that he thought of Potter. 

He pondered briefly over Potter’s offer of partnership. Then, he glanced at Moldy-wart and felt such a strong throb of irritation that he almost had a physical response. And he thought of his exams.

His _exams._

_My exams._

And he made up his mind.

He walked through the crowd to where Potter was located and grabbed his arm to pull him backwards.

“Wha—?”

“I’ll do it.” Draco said, to Potter’s surprised face. “I’ll partner up with you.”

“Wh—I—okay.” Potter blinked, his hair all over the place. “Okay.”

“Do you have your clothes?” Draco asked, in a low voice.

Potter nodded.

“Hurry up.” Draco said, already on his way back towards his car.

* * *

“What’s the hold up?” Maximilian asked.

“Nothing much,” Draco replied, grabbing an emergency change of clothes he’d stashed inside his bag. “I’ll sort it out.”

“You’ll _what?”_ Maximilian turned around to shoot Draco an incredulous look. “What are you—”

Draco rolled up the partition. He changed his clothes. He surveyed his surroundings through the tinted glass. Most people had abandoned their cars. He thought for a while. And then he unlocked the car door and fell out as if he’d been pushed.

“Thank you for the ride!” Tacky said to the empty backseat, in a French accent, “Sorry for hijacking your car on such short notice.” and then Tacky stood up and waved to the empty back-seat before closing the car door. 

“Oh my _god—”_ Maximilian gasped when he saw her.

“Sorry for hijacking,” Tacky smiled.

“Wha— _Draco!”_ Maximilian turned around in his seat and rolled down the partition.

“The boy left while you were being hysterical,” Tacky said, picking dust off her sleeve.

“He’ll be the end of me,” Maximilian groaned.

“Teenagers,” Tacky shrugged. And then she ran off.

* * *

Potter—or, rather, Golden-boy—got there before Tacky did. Presumably, this was because he hadn’t taken any precautionary measures to ensure his identity wasn’t revealed. Draco sighed.

Moldy-wart was surrounded by his loser supporters. He pointed a wrinkled finger at Potter. “You will pay for the insult you—”

“Fuck’s _sake,_ man.” Draco interrupted, loudly.

The crowd of civilians around him parted like the red-sea.

“So this is what Moses felt like,” Draco said, to a staring woman.

 _“You!”_ wheezed Moldy-wart.

Draco sighed and walked up to the heart of the conflict. 

“How long has he been doing this.” he asked Potter.

“Since he first saw me.” Potter muttered back.

Draco groaned. He turned to Moldy-wart. “What do you _want.”_

_“Your head!”_

“I meant why have you inconvenienced us all.” Draco snapped, _“Again.”_

“We’re going to kill off innocent civilians!” yelled one of the loser supporters, waving a gun in the air.

The crowd of innocent civilians began moving backwards, screaming.

Potter moved forward and drew a huge earthen barricade before the civilians. He used a gush of wind to push back any approaching loser supporters.

“Send a gigantic flare of fire up into the air,” Draco whispered to him. “Make it flashy.”

Potter sent a very flashy flare of fire into the air. Moldy-wart and his crowd of loser-supporters began cowering.

“As you can see,” said Draco, smiling, “You’re all fucked.” and then Draco levitated all the firearms he could see into the air and bent them quite irreparably out of shape. He smiled again. “You can cry, now.”

“Surrender.” called Golden-boy/Potter. “You’ve done enough damage.”

A few loser supporters raised their arms tremulously.

“That’s the loser spirit!” Draco encouraged.

“Surrender.” Potter repeated. “Stop this.”

 _“Greyback!”_ Moldy-wart shouted, and a huge grey wolf leapt out in front of him, baring its teeth.

“What the _fuck—”_ Draco cussed, as he took hold of it and flung it at Potter’s earthen wall.

_“Bellatrix!”_

“Stop them!” Draco yelled, “I’ll hold back the wolf—” the grey wolf turned into a man, “—man. I’ll hold back the feral wolf-man, holy _fuck.”_

“They’re— _shit._ ” Potter sent another group of loser supporters backwards with a strong gust of wind. _“They’re gone.”_

“Great going, Golden-boy!” Draco snarled. “Fantastic job, you did there!”

“I—where did they _go?!”_

“They escaped,” Draco snapped. _“Again._ Thanks for that, by the way. What would we ever do without you, you useless piece of fuck.”

“You were here too!”

“I was holding back the feral wolf-man!”

“And I was holding back _literally_ _everyone else!”_

Draco glared at him. Then, he remembered the chemistry exam. He took a few calming breaths. “Freeze the feral wolf-man and lower the earthen barricade.” Draco listened for the sound of a police-siren as Potter froze the feral wolf-man. Sure enough, he could hear it. “From the sound of it, the police are here.”

“Great.” Potter sighed in frustration. “I’ll just clean up the mess, then. Like always.”

“Just make sure the road’s flat enough to drive on and then head to school.” Draco said, a tad irritably, his voice low. “I’ll talk to you after chemistry.”

Potter’s head snapped towards him.

“Lower the fucking barricade.” Draco snapped.

Potter lowered the barricade. Draco walked out. The police-men around him trained their guns on him.

“Oh, fuck off.” Draco snapped at them. “I saved your life. Ask Goldie-bum over there for confirmation.” And then Draco walked past them and sat on top of an empty police-car. “I’ll leave this under the high-way.” And then Draco levitated the police car—and himself—up, up, and to the underside of the high-way.

And then, finally alone, Draco put his head in his hands. “Fuck my life.”

And then Draco dug through his inner pockets and called Maximilian. “I’m waiting at the bottom of the high-way. Hurry up.”

And then Draco took off Tacky-pillar’s drag clothes and walked to the bottom of the highway in the school uniform that he’d been wearing underneath. He had a chemistry exam to get to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing the Draco in the fic is never going to get easier for me. T.T


	4. Both Begrudging AND Doomed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aren't you proud of me for posting a new chapter in under a month? DEVELOPMENT, am I right?  
> No? Okay T.T

“Holy shit,” Theo breathed, as soon as they had exited the exam hall.

Draco made a distracted noise of agreement as he scanned the morose crowd of students who surrounded them. _Where are you, you incorrigible piece of shit._ Potter had been sitting a few rows away from Draco. He’d been dismissed earlier. He better not have gone home.

“—molecular shape—hello?” Theo waved a hand over Draco’s face. “Earth to Draco Malfoy?” 

“Yeah, I agree,” Draco said, refusing to admit he’d been distracted, and by Potter, of all people. 

“Right,” Theo returned, disbelieving. “So?”

Draco eyed him. “So?”

“So, answer my question.”

Theo was such a spiteful arsehole. Draco adored him. _Molecular shape… molecular shape… ah—_ “I put trigonal bipyramidal.”

“Nice try.” Theo nodded. “But I didn’t ask a question.”

“Wanker,” Draco laughed. 

“Says you. Where’s your head at, anyway?”

 _Potter._ Draco didn’t say. _Right now, in particular._

 _Potter._ Draco couldn’t say. _Because we’re partners now, can you believe it? I’ve signed my own death sentence._

“Brown’s new hair.” Draco supplied, in lieu of anything even resembling the truth.

“Talk about shit-show. She looks like a fucking clown.”

“Mmmhmm,” Draco agreed, scanning the crowd again, and again, and _where is he, where are you, oh, bane of my existence—_ Potter’s hair, a beacon, called to Draco amongst the gaggle of students like a particularly painful spell of diarrhoea. “Listen, Theo, I’ll catch up with you later,”

“Why do I put up with you?”

Draco turned away from Potter, briefly, and shot him a smirk. It was obvious, wasn’t it? “My face?”

“Well, it’s definitely not your personality.”

Draco brushed the back of Theo’s hand with his own. “Later,”

“You’re being gay.” Theo muttered, despite his glaring pleasure.

“Lucky you.” Draco returned, his eyes finding Potter’s gaze.

And then Draco was pushing his way through the crowd in order to take hold of the tosser and make some fucking sense of the absurdity of the last few days.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, standing in the fucking courtyard and with his face completely numb from freezing bursts of wind, Draco had had enough. He had had enough of having enough. In fact, he had had _so_ much enough he genuinely believed that from henceforth, he would never fall short of another enough. In other words, copious amounts of enough were had. And Draco had crossed his irritation threshold by miles. 

He crossed his arms. “Coffee shop.”

“What?” Potter frowned at him, his nose pinking in the fucking ice-air (which Draco _swore_ had travelled all the way from the very heart of the arctic tundra).

“We’re going to a coffee shop.”

“Malfoy, what the fuck.”

 _He’s impossible._ Draco felt the urge to rub his temples. “You’re impossible.”

 _“I’m_ impossible—”

“We can’t talk about this at _school,_ you _idiot—”_

“Then _lead_ with that, Malfoy,” Potter shot back, frustration lacing his words. “Why are you being purposefully difficult?”

 _Huh,_ Draco hadn’t realised that Potter could tell. He repeated, “Coffee shop.”

They compromised (over _what,_ Draco hadn’t a clue—he suspected that it physically hurt Potter to give in to him and he had put up a fight just for the heck of it) and ended up at The Fair Heart. Which Draco honestly preferred, and so took as a win.

* * *

At first, Draco ordered tea. He couldn’t deal with Potter without tea.

Then, after five minutes of sitting across Potter in excruciating silence, he ordered a slice of cake. He couldn’t deal with Potter, at all. He may as well have some cake for consolation.

“Potter.” started Draco.

“Malfoy.” Potter returned, levelling him a wary look.

Draco figured they should start with the basics. He lowered his voice, “Golden-boy,”

Potter looked embarrassed at the mention of the nick-name. _Good,_ thought Draco, freshly vindictive from—everything, really. 

Potter cleared his throat, “Ta—”

“Yes, we’ve covered this.” Draco cut him off.

Potter ate a chip. (He was always eating. Though you’d never be able to tell from his appearance—all bones and more bones and fucking more bones, even after all that time on the football field.) “Dunno if punching someone in the gut counts as covering it,” 

Annoyance threatened to cloud Draco’s vision. It’d been too much to hope that Potter would conveniently forget about that entire—scene/drama/ordeal. Draco felt so irritated that the small, blooming dredges of guilt in his chest were quickly smothered. “What did you expect, you halfwit.”

Potter shrugged. He’d stopped bouncing his leg up and down. He was irritated, as well. _Good,_ thought Draco.

Draco said, “We need to lay some ground-rules.”

Potter ate another chip in silence.

“I don’t want to talk to you more than is absolutely necessary,” Draco continued. He really, _truly_ didn’t. For a plethora of reasons—the main one being that Potter _sucked_ and Draco _hated being around him._

Potter stopped eating his chips and looked away. He was bordering on fury. _Excellent,_ thought Draco.

“Cat got your tongue, Golden-boy?” Draco drawled. Potter was so irresistible when he was bordering on fury. Just one little push and he’d tip over. Like a bomb, almost.

Potter’s nostrils flared. Without bringing his eyes back to the table, he said, “We can’t cooperate if you’re going to keep doing this.”

“Doing what.”

 _“This._ Being pissy. Being an arsehole.” Potter looked back at Draco. “This is bigger than either you or me.”

And there he was doing it again. Making Draco feel like a child; an immature brat. Taking Draco’s anger and just painting it as insignificant. Something trivial. _‘Oh no, Malfoy, there are bigger things in the world. Like me! Saint Potter! And even if there_ weren’t _bigger things in the world, you matter less than one of my boogers.’_

It was Draco’s turn to look away, irritation turning into anger. He couldn’t do this. Why had he agreed?

“Moldy-wart’s going to keep doing stuff like what he did today.” Potter continued. “Neither of us knows the extent of how far he’ll go. We have to stop him.”

 _Have to?_ “I don’t have to do anything.”

“You’re the one who agreed to partner—”

“I _chose_ to partner up with you. I didn’t have to do it.” Draco eyed him contemptuously. “Don’t push your ridiculous notions of obligation onto me.”

Potter pursed his lips and looked away again. A muscle in his jaw ticked. _I could push him over the edge. It would be so easy, so satisfying. After all he’s made me feel, it would be so very justified as well._ But would it? Would it be justified? Draco met Potter’s angry eyes. _I’m putting words in his mouth, aren’t I. I’m externalising my… anger? Insecurities?_ When had they returned? Potter was clenching his fists so hard the veins on his hand looked like they were being restrained by his skin. _I could push him over the edge._ But as satisfying as it would be, Potter was guileless.

And they were getting nowhere with their initial intention. 

“That aside, we need to pool information.” Draco could be gregarious. He could force gregariousness for the greater good. Or the lesser evil. Potter was the lesser evil compared to Moldy-idiot-fuck. When Potter didn’t reply, Draco raised an eyebrow. The words escaped before his mind had realised they’d been formulated, “Who’s being pissy, now?”

In an _extremely_ dramatic move—like something straight out of the Korean Dramas Ajumma liked to watch—Potter stood from his seat. It was a whole spectacle, he shot out of his chair like some sort of jack-in-the-box. The legs of his chair scraped against the floor, a loud bang resounded (had he bumped his knee on his way up? That was so embarrassing for him, oh my god), and gritting his teeth ferociously all the while, he gathered his belongings—honest-to-god, he was _emanating_ anger, it was rolling off him in waves—and he walked away. 

Everyone stared at Draco’s lone figure—the collateral from Potter’s explosion. He ignored them all. He’d been well-versed in the art of feigning composure. He ate a spoonful of cake for consolation. 

_That went well._

* * *

In hindsight, Draco admitted, it was a mistake to tell Luna about his and Potter's failed attempt at cordiality.

The thing was, Looney was just so very… lovable (in a strange, absurd way) and also trustworthy (or rather, she _appeared_ trustworthy. Though for the life of him, Draco couldn’t explain why. She was more elusive than both Pansy and Blaise combined.)

She had come over the Saturday before normal lessons resumed and they’d watched American cartoons, and he’d braided her hair. Draco had always wanted a sibling—the manor was far too big, and far too oppressive to weather alone as a child—and there she was, Looney, Looney, lovely Looney, Draco’s very own little sister. Who, to be fair, acted more like his crazy grand aunt than a little sister, but Draco would take what he could get.

It _may_ have occurred that, while braiding her hair, Draco’s hellish mouth started to complain about Potter—his complete inability to _stay calm_ so that they could stop the super-fucker from whatever it was he thought he was accomplishing—and it _may_ have occurred that Draco’s complaint turned into a rant, that went on for _maybe_ an hour. Or two. Nobody was counting.

“Draco,” admonished Looney, as far as she could admonish anyone (not very far), “You instigated him.”

“I most absolutely did.” Draco agreed. “It was glorious.”

Looney laughed, so all was good. And then all was abruptly less good because Looney started talking logic, “Surely, you can’t expect him to stay calm if you’re trying to drive him mad.”

Draco sniffed as he finished off her braids.

“You can’t stay angry about the fact that he knew who you were before you knew who he was, forever,” Looney said, gently.

“I’m not angry, I’m just frustrated.”

Luna turned back to gaze at him, with grey eyes clearer than anyone’s he’d ever seen. “Trying to make him feel as frustrated as you felt isn’t going to help anything.” 

Draco considered sulking for a second, but upon making eye contact with Luna—who’d never been known to harbour malice towards anyone—he felt suddenly guilty. She had that effect on him. She was always corrupting his horribleness.

“Yeah,” Draco admitted, but just because he’d admitted something didn’t mean that he was willing to dwell on it, “Ice cream?”

“Sure,” Looney agreed, and Draco got up to bring her some ice-cream, and everything was good until he saw her texting someone on her phone, and before he could ask her if it was Pansy (he _swore_ she’d _stopped_ doing that whole—seducing thing), she opened her mouth to say, “Harry’s agreed to meet you again tomorrow,”

Draco’s first thought was, _Oh, thank god, it’s not Pansy._

Draco’s second thought was, “Luna, what the _fuck!”_

“What’s wrong?” she frowned at him.

“You—you—” Draco spluttered, “Oh, stop it, stop looking so precious,” Draco covered his eyes so that he didn’t have to face her wide-eyed stare. “When the fuck did you and Potter exchange numbers?!”

“We’re friends,” came her non-answer. “Is the coffee shop next to my house okay?”

 _“No,_ it’s absolutely _not_ okay—why on earth did you text him, you horrible girl?”

“Now you can talk,”

“Now we can talk, _my arse—_ what the fuck did you say to him,”

“That you wanted to talk,”

“I _don’t_ want to talk, Luna! What is wrong with you!”

“That’s the impression I—”

“The impression,” Draco grit at her, his eyes still covered so that he could continue feeling irritated, “was _wrong.”_

“Really?” she asked, surprised.

“No, not really.” Draco confessed, begrudgingly. “But you don’t _admit things like that, Luna!”_

“Why not?”

“Because _no!”_ Draco nearly shrieked. “I’m so angry at you!” Sometimes, Luna had difficulty discerning emotion if it wasn’t clearly stated.

“It’s for the better, isn’t it?” she asked.

Draco removed his hands from his eyes and looked down at her innocently eating her ice-cream, completely unaware of the damage she had wreaked. He tried hard to hold onto his exasperation as he felt it slip rapidly from the fore of his mind. Despite his very best efforts, he was utterly drained of his anger.

“What did you say.” he asked her, less hysterically.

“That you were willing to talk to him again,”

Draco groaned. “Show me,”

She gave him her phone. He unlocked it and read her messages to Potter.

Me: Draco would like to talk to you again

Harry: Ok

Me: Is tomorrow alright?

Harry: Yeah

Me: At the coffee shop near my house?

Harry: Ok

“Charming, isn’t he,” Draco said, sarcastically. He handed her back her phone.

Looney giggled and Draco rolled his eyes. This was so unbelievably embarrassing—for Draco to have made the first move, whether genuinely or not. He’d need Luna to be there in order to set things straight (it was the _principle_ of the matter).

“You’re coming with me, by the way,” he told her.

She nodded, “To act as an intermediary?”

 _Well, that too._ He nodded back, “To act as an intermediary.”

* * *

Potter had brought his own intermediary, in the form of one Hermione Granger. 

_Coward,_ thought Draco. And then he remembered the alternative and was eternally grateful that he hadn’t brought Weasel instead. Or the Weaselette, god forbid.

And so they all sat at a table in the coffee shop closest to Luna’s house in utter silence. 

Draco stood up in order to buy some cake—for self-consolation and all. Luna occasionally commented something about Granger’s inner waves. Granger tried very hard to keep her temper. It occurred to Draco that if Granger and him ever became sworn enemies, all he’d need to take her down was Luna, and her incessant, innocent strangeness. Draco sent Luna a fond look.

Granger broke first. She cleared her throat, “I think we should get to the matter at hand.”

“Draco’s Wrackspurts,” nodded Luna. “They’ve multiplied again,”

Draco smiled into his latte.

 _“No,_ Luna.” Granger sighed. She lowered her voice and glanced towards Potter, “Harry and Draco’s—super-powers,”

“Is that the matter at hand?” Luna asked Draco.

“It appears so,” Draco returned. At Luna’s answering frown, he said, “I know, boring.”

“Draco.” Granger crossed her arms, sternly. “This is serious.”

“Really?” Draco asked, “What gave it away?” He turned to Luna, “Was it the homicidal madman?”

She giggled and nodded, “I think so,”

“Huh,” Draco took another sip of his latte.

“Can you be serious?” Granger asked him

“Of course I can,” Draco sat back in his chair and smiled, “I’m just choosing not to be,”

Potter made a sound that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. Draco glanced at him. Their eyes met for a second. Things were less hostile when more people were around. Granger and Looney were buffers.

“Draco.” Granger sighed.

He rolled his eyes. “I’ll behave. Get on with the conversation.”

She pursed her lips. “Harry can control the four elements.”

“You don’t say,”

She sent him a warning look. “He’s powerful.”

 _Debatable,_ thought Draco, as he eyed Potter playing with his straw.

“I like your shirt, Harry,” Luna said, “It’s very fetching, all that green,”

“Thanks, Luna,” Potter gave her a smile. 

Luna smiled back.

“Honestly, all of you,” Granger glared. She pulled out a monstrous pile of papers from her bag, “I’ve made notes,”

“Jesus,” Draco muttered, eyeing the pile. “You made that in a day?”

Granger sniffed proudly, “I had some from before, it didn’t take that long.”

Draco flipped through the pile, scanning the section headings (there were section headings. And colour coded notes. Granger could be so fucking brilliant sometimes): **Golden-boy; Tacky-pillar; Others?; Newspaper clippings; Unrelated incidents…**

“Our favourite know-it-all strikes again,” Draco shook his head, in wonder. How had she managed all this in a day? 

Granger beamed in pleasure. Draco was glad they’d sorted out their whole childhood-feud. She had the potential to be terrifying.

“Is it my turn, now?” Luna asked.

“Your turn for what?” Granger frowned.

“To act as an intermediary?”

“What?—”

“Yeah, go ahead, Looney,” Draco told her.

Luna spread her hands on the table and began, “Draco can move things with his mind.” She waited for a beat, “He is very funny.”

“This is where you say I’m powerful, Looney,”

“But being funny is so much better,” she returned.

Draco considered this. Coming from Looney, he guessed it was.

“D’you think _I’m_ funny?” Potter asked her. Draco swallowed a laugh. He must have felt left out.

“Sometimes,” Luna said.

Draco grinned at her. _Looney, you loyal brilliance._

Potter looked oddly hurt. He turned to Granger, “Do _you_ think I’m funny?”

“Can we all please _focus?”_ Granger asked. At Potter’s expression she sighed and said, _“Yes,_ Harry, I think you’re funny.”

“But you think I’m funnier,” Draco said.

“No,” Potter refuted—the first direct conversation they’d had all day—“she thinks _I_ am.”

“Don’t be more pathetic than you already are, Potter.”

“‘Mione.” Potter demanded. “Who’s funnier—Me or Malfoy?”

Granger cleared her throat (which didn’t bode well for Potter), “You’re funny in different ways.”

“I agree.” Draco nodded. “I’m funny on purpose.”

Potter scowled at him, his dark brows furrowing. Even with their buffers, it seemed Draco could push him towards the edge. It was good to know. Comforting, almost.

 _“Anyways,”_ Granger said. “We need to pool information.”

 _Ah, business._ Draco checked his watch. It was half past three, this was taking forever. “Yeah, okay.”

“Draco, you go first. How did you find out about the power outage?”

“The lights went out in the middle of my history exam. Blaise checked his snapchat once we had left the exam hall and we saw the super-idiot on Daphne’s story. Pansy watched him on the TV and relayed what he was saying over the phone.”

Potter nodded slowly, “I was at home, I saw his message first-hand. I left as soon as I realised he was in the power-plant. I didn’t know he’d asked for me specifically until I arrived and he tried to—recruit me, or something.”

He’d left home before he found out he’d been called. _Typical._ “You left home to meet a potentially dangerous stranger, for no other reason than because he turned off the power,” Draco said.

“Well, yeah,” he rubbed his neck, sheepishly.

Was he stupid or brave? _Both,_ decided Draco. _As well as arrogant._ “It didn’t occur to you to leave it to the authorities.”

“How useful would the authorities have been?” Granger defended Potter, “What, with the man’s super-powered advantage. And there were important things on the line.”

Draco nodded, “The mock exams,” at the same time as Potter said, “The hospitals,”

And that is when Draco remembered the hospitals. _Well, fuck._ He’d completely forgotten about them. It was so typical of Potter to have thought of that first, with his saviour complex.

And, okay, fine, with his objective goodness, as well. (He was just never good to _Draco_ , so this trait of his was so easy to overlook. Or purposefully ignore. Draco didn’t like to think well of Potter.)

Draco sipped his latte and pretended he hadn’t said anything as Granger and Potter turned to stare at him. _Yes, I’m a selfish arsehole, you’ve known since we were eleven, let's move on._

“Right,” Granger said, “So why did you come, Draco?”

“The power-cut inconvenienced me personally,” Draco decided to continue to be a selfish arsehole. It was his default setting, anyway. He made eye contact with Potter. _Is he going to recount our conversation?_

“The exams, I’m assuming,” continued Granger, “And how did you enter?”

 _He didn’t,_ thought Draco, still eyeing Potter and his silence. _Why? Why didn’t he say anything?_

He said, to Granger, “I downloaded blueprints off the internet and entered from the door closest to the employee garbage chute. One of the idiot-followers saw me and assumed I’d come to join their stupid ‘revolution,’ so I took advantage of the misunderstanding and got him to lead me to the control room.”

“In order to scope the situation?” Granger asked.

“Yeah,” Draco continued, “I basically just spent an hour watching him,” Draco gestured towards Potter, “getting physically abused by the idiot-followers.”

Granger nodded, “And you came down to help him because you were worried,”

“No.” lied Draco.

“Lying doesn’t make for a successful partnership, Draco,” Luna said.

Draco deliberately ignored her. She was such a bloody snitch. He turned to Granger, completely avoiding Potter’s gaze. “I didn’t want Golden-boy’s,”— _please notice the distinction, the distinction is important—_ “death on my conscience.”

“Okay,” Granger nodded, “Harry?”

Potter sat up from his slouch. He had whipped cream on his upper lip. “I entered from—er, I don’t know, honestly—somewhere. Uh… and then I pretty much ran straight into Moldy-wart.”

Draco had never felt a _physical_ urge to roll his eyes before. It was quite illuminating.

“And he basically just told me that he wanted to—well, you know, his twisted idea of a revolution—and he asked me to join him.” Potter shrugged. “I refused. He attacked me. I retaliated.”

Draco lost the fight against his willpower and rolled his eyes.

“And then, well, he asked me again and he started—monologuing?” Granger passed Potter a napkin. Potter wiped his face, completely missing the whipped cream in the process. He turned to face Draco, “He went to Hogwarts.”

 _Oh?_ Draco frowned. That was unexpected. Hogwarts in this day and age… Hogwarts in _that_ day and age, as well—it had always been diverse. Where had his prejudice come from? His family?

“He’s an orphan,” Potter continued, “He—well, he’s old.”

 _Not his family, then._ “Did he mention anything about his upbringing?” Draco asked. “Abusive foster parents? Neglectful orphanage?”

Potter shook his head.

“Did he mention anything about his powers?” Draco asked.

“All he mentioned was that he can control snakes,”

 _According to him,_ Draco thought.

“According to him,” Potter added.

“According to him,” Granger agreed.

“What else did he say about the snakes, Harry?” Luna asked.

“That’s all I managed to get out of him before Ta—Malfoy showed up.”

 _So that’s why you let him capture you,_ thought Draco. _Not bad for a moron._

“He tried to recruit you too, right?” Granger asked Draco.

Draco nodded. Frowning, he asked, “How did he manage to gather so many followers?”

“I assume they’re all—well,” Granger pursed her lips.

“The world’s not lacking for arseholes with victim complexes.” Draco finished for her.

“The world’s not lacking for spite grown out of misfortune,” Luna said, in a much kinder tone.

“I assumed it was the internet,” Potter said, the fucking-idiot.

But then Draco thought about it, “Like a website?”

“Maybe,” Potter shrugged. “Or a blog, or a twitter or—I don’t know, the internet’s enormous.” 

“Maybe he posted a job ad,” suggested Granger, “On LinkedIn,”

“Maybe he’s a youtuber,” Luna said. “Maybe he does hauls with his snake.”

“That’s—wow.” said Draco. “So we assume he used the internet,” That didn’t explain Aunty Bellatrix. How did Bellatrix know him? There’s no way she was allowed electronic devices. “Potter, did he mention anything about recruiting people? Like he tried with us?”

“No,” Potter furrowed his brows in concentration, whipped cream still on his fucking lip, “Though it’d make sense—some of the really powerful ones—the wolf-man, and, what was her name—the one you kept telling me to watch out for,”

“Bellatrix,” said Draco, faintly. He realised, belatedly, the mistake he’d made by identifying her.

Luna looked up at him. “Aunty Bellatrix?”

Granger gaped, _“Aunty_ Bellatrix?”

“That’s how you knew her,” Potter looked at Draco, “What’s her power? How does she keep vanishing?”

Draco rubbed a hand over his face. “She can teleport.”

“Teleportation,” Granger muttered. “That complicates things,”

“That’s—that makes her almost invincible,” Potter leaned forward on the table. “She could just teleport out of my barricade—she teleported Moldy-wart away, didn’t she?”

“Draco, how did she—when did she escape?” Luna asked him, her face uncharacteristically grim.

“I don’t know,” Draco told her, “I didn’t know until I saw her,”

“Escape from _where?”_ Granger asked.

“St Marlow’s Hospital.” Draco rubbed his temples, “It’s a high-security psychiatric hospital.”

“How did they keep her there in the first place,” Potter frowned, “Why didn’t she just teleport out?”

“I don’t—” know? Except he did, kind of, “I suspect they kept her drugged, like they do with all the particularly dangerous patients.”

“That’s why she joined him,” said Granger, grabbing a pen and notebook out of her bag.

“To an extent, probably,” Draco agreed, “He agreed to keep her un-drugged, I imagine.”

“Aunty Bellatrix,” said Luna, “She’s always been—they all avoid her,”

“Who?” asked Granger, her pen poised.

“All of them—The Nargles, The Wrackspurts, The Dapperblimps—”

“Oh, for god’s sake, Luna,” Granger scowled.

“Hey.” Draco defended, dangerously. He liked not-hating Granger, but he loved Luna. There was no comparison between them.

“You’re saying that she’s always had—antisocial tendencies?” Potter asked Luna, putting a hand on Granger’s arm. “What was she in the hospital for?”

“It was her sentence,” Draco answered.

“Dad won’t tell me what she did,” Luna told Draco.

She had killed her husband. She had cut his corpse up. She had bleached the bones and reassembled them into a skeleton. She had hung it in her classroom. _She was a professor, Luna._ Nobody knew for months. They only found out because one of her neighbours developed food-poisoning after eating at her house. The doctors suspected a more sinister motive and sent a sample of her vomit to the authorities. They didn’t detect any poison, though further tests revealed human DNA—different from the woman who had vomited it out of her system. The authorities conducted a search and they found the butchered remains of Bellatrix’s missing husband inside her freezer.

But Luna didn’t need to know that.

“Mum never told me either,” Draco said. And she hadn’t. Draco had found an old newspaper clipping in her cupboards.

Luna frowned at him.

Draco turned to face Potter and Granger, “She got off on an insanity defence. She was medically diagnosed as a psychopath. Her family's rich—they managed to put her in a hospital instead of behind bars.”

“This—” Granger jotted down notes.

Potter looked from Draco to Luna in silence.

“Is she our biggest threat?” Potter asked him.

“I don’t know,” Draco replied honestly. “Probably.”

“Can anything contain her?” Granger asked. “Her form of kryptonite?”

“I don’t know,” Draco replied, frustrated with himself for being so fucking useless, “I’ll ask my mum.”

“I’ll ask her with you,” Luna said.

 _No,_ Draco wanted to say, _Absolutely not. You’re not getting involved in this._

“She’s been really busy with work these past few days,” Draco said, instead, “I don’t think it’ll be possible to catch her together. It’ll be easier for me to ask her alone.”

Luna gazed at him in silence. She said, softly, “I can take care of myself, Draco.”

_No, you can’t._

Draco ignored her and turned to Potter, knowing the answer before he’d even asked the question, “You still want to do this?”

“Yeah,” Potter looked back at him. “You?”

This really _was_ bigger than both of them. “Yeah,” Draco said.

“Okay,” Potter said, “Partners?”

“Partners,” Draco agreed, holding out his hand, and feeling an inexplicable fear that Potter would reject him. Again. Like that first time, all those years ago.

“Partners.” Potter repeated, grasping Draco’s hand in his own and shaking it.

Draco glanced at their hands. _Softer than I imagined._ And then he pulled his hand out of Potter’s and stood up. “That’s enough for today.”

“What?” Granger frowned at him. “There’s so much we haven’t covered—we haven’t even started planning—”

“Granger,” said Draco, “I’m going home.” _and taking Looney with me._

“What if he conducts another attack today?” she demanded. “Or tomorrow? What are you both going to do, then?”

“He’s conducted two almost consecutively, and they’ve both failed. If he tries a third one without proper planning, he’s an idiot.” Draco offered a hand to Luna, “And if he’s an idiot, he’s no match for me.”

“So, what, you’re just going to—”

“He won’t conduct another attack for a while.” Draco told her, pulling Luna out of her seat. “It doesn’t make sense. We apprehended a majority of his followers last time.”

Potter nodded, “They’re all in custody.”

Draco met his gaze for a second and turned to Granger, “He’ll need time to reconvene.”

“How can you be certain?” Granger asked.

“You can never be certain,” Draco replied, “You can only ever predict and hope for the best. Right, Looney?”

“Hmmm.” Luna hummed her agreement, without meeting Draco’s eyes.

Draco hid a wince. She was angry with him.

He’d finally done it, he’d finally driven off Luna and her endless patience. This had been bound to happen. But not so soon, not like this. Not right now. Not when Draco was just—worried.

“When can you meet again?” Potter asked him.

“I don’t know, I’ll have to check,” Draco responded, still looking at Luna. She’d never been angry with him before. He didn’t know what to do.

“Wait, Malfoy—here,” Potter grabbed Draco’s wrist and stuffed a napkin in his hand.

Draco raised an eyebrow at him, “Thank you?”

He flushed a bit around his ears, “My number. Text me.”

He’d written his number down on a napkin. Draco looked down at his hand. He glanced up and made direct eye contact with Potter, “A bit eager, don't you think?”

Potter’s flush spread to his cheeks, “No—that’s not—I’m not—”

Draco put the napkin in his pocket. “Yeah, got it.” he pulled gently at Luna’s hand, “Come on,” and then they left.

They walked right out of the coffee shop and all the way to Luna’s house, in silence the whole while. Draco tried to hug her goodbye at her doorstep but she evaded him. Then, she closed the door and Draco was left alone on the street. And it was alone, all by himself—feeling the size of the world and his consequent smallness, all for the first time—that he felt the sting of building tears. She was one of the most precious people in his life, and she was mad at him. He’d just—he didn’t want her to get hurt. She was his family, just like Pansy was his family, just like Blaise was his family. 

_And she’s mad at me. I’ve driven her away._

* * *

“What’s wrong with you?” Blaise asked him, halfway through history.

“Nothing,” Draco returned, not even glancing away from his laptop screen.

“Draco?” Blaise frowned. “Is it serious?”

“It’s nothing, Blaise.” he said, “Do your work.”

* * *

“Right.” Blaise took hold of Draco’s elbow and pulled him down the corridor as soon as History had ended.

“Let go,” Draco said, trying to pull out of his grip. “I’m not in the mood.”

“That is immediately apparent.”

“Seriously, Blaise. Stop it.”

“Let me remind you, Dracon, that you ripped my school trousers.”

Draco stopped struggling, “Do you want money? Is that it? You want me to buy you food?” He dug his wallet out of his bag, “Here. Take it. Let me go.”

“That’s not what I wanted,” said Blaise, as he pocketed Draco’s wallet. “But thanks,”

“Just let me go, Blaise,” said Draco.

But Blaise just kept pulling and pulling, and Draco stopped resisting after a while and just let himself be pulled and pulled, and it seemed a lifetime and a half but eventually they stopped. At the McDonalds closest to school. Which was a bit of a surprise given that Draco was paying and Blaise had chosen.

“What do you want?” Blaise asked, holding up Draco’s wallet, “Go wild, you’re paying.”

 _“Nothing,_ Blaise.” Draco snapped.

“Okay.” Blaise pulled Draco towards a table and sat him down. “I know it’s not Pansy, because when it’s Pansy, she makes it public knowledge that you’ve fucked up. And I also know it’s not Lucius, because he’s on that business trip. It’s not me, because, well, I’d know.” Blaise raised an eyebrow. “Which means it’s Luna.”

“Should I be offended that you think I only have three friends. And one parent.”

“It’s not your mum because your mum doesn’t do stuff like that,” Blaise shrugged. “And you don’t truly care about anyone else to be genuinely affected.”

“Great.” said Draco. “Fantastic. You’ve solved the mystery.”

“And you’re genuinely upset,” Blaise observed. “Like, properly upset. I haven’t seen you this upset since that period in sixth year, when Lucius was all— _‘unbend yourself, scion of The Malfoy House,’”_

“Yes, that’s exactly what he said, verbatim.”

“Oh, come off it, Draco,” Blaise said, far too gentle for Draco’s liking. “Don’t keep it all within you when you don’t have to.”

Draco stared at the table.

“It’s Luna, isn’t it?” Blaise asked.

“Yeah,” Draco said, his energy abruptly depleted, his voice hoarse.

“Is she mad?”

Draco nodded.

Blaise exhaled. “What happened?”

And Draco told him what happened, from beginning to end, without missing any details.

And Blaise said, “You’re not her father.”

“I’m her cousin.”

“You’re her friend.”

“She can’t protect herself.”

“Draco, listen to yourself.” Blaise shook his head. “She wouldn’t be put in a position where she’d have to ‘protect herself.’ She won’t be following you and Potter out into the direct line of action.”

“We’re not playing pretend, Blaise.” Draco rubbed his eye. “These people exist. It’s not—I don’t want her involved. It’s not safe.”

“That’s not for you to decide.”

“It bloody well is.” Draco snapped.

“No.” Blaise shook his head. “You’re not her father.”

“I’m just worried.” he said, tiredly.

“Yeah,” Blaise said. “I know. She knows. Every fucking person who comes within a ten meter radius of you both knows. But you can’t make her decisions for her.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“That’s what you may as _well_ be doing.”

Draco rubbed both eyes. “So I just let her prance into something that could get her seriously hurt?”

“So you just trust her, and let her spend time with you.” Blaise pat Draco’s head. “Maybe she’s worried about you. Ever thought of that?”

Draco opened his eyelids in order to look at Blaise. “When did you stop being a wanker?”

“Never,” Blaise grinned, holding up Draco’s wallet again. And in a move that was so utterly, intrinsically _Blaise_ , he said: “Now get up, we’re ordering Nando’s.” 

* * *

Draco walked into Chemistry with a plan. As soon as Chemistry finished, he would sprint to the Art Department and ambush Luna. And then he’d demand to be forgiven. Or wail apologies. He hadn’t yet decided.

It was while he was thinking about Luna, and not Chemistry, or Snape, or how he was seven minutes late, that Snape stopped him in front of the class and insulted him publicly for being seven minutes late.

“Sorry, Professor Snape,” Draco said.

“I presume you have no legitimate excuse.”

“No.” said Draco. “I’m sorry.”

Snape eyed him, “There will be no next time.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Some more eyeing. “Go sit down.”

Draco turned to the lab only in order to find his usual seat occupied. There’d been a seating change. He scanned the classroom and froze. _Fuck me._

“I’ve changed the seating plan.” said Snape, sounding entirely too smug for Draco’s liking.

Next to the only empty seat in the classroom sat Potter, looking back at Draco like a threatened animal. The last time they’d been forced to sit next to each other, it had ended in torn hair (Potter), bruises (Draco), and tears (Longbottom). (Fucking Longbottom, that watery loser.)

“Please continue wasting all our time, Malfoy,” Snape said, snappishly.

“Sorry, Sir,” Draco muttered, turning away to make his way to his new seat. _Oh, fuck me a thousand times with the prickliest cactus you can find._

He sat down on the lab stool and took out all the stuff he needed for the lesson out of his bag. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him. The general atmosphere of trepidation was catching. 

Potter and Draco, without their intermediaries, didn’t make for a very stable reaction. They were each, in their own right, extremely volatile. The reaction between them was a violent one. _Exothermic,_ thought Draco, _Negative enthalpy value; positive entropy value. Spontaneous at room temperature, with an oxygen catalyst._ (Draco took a moment to feel extremely pleased with himself and his chemistry metaphors.)

They were already going to be spending so much time together, with the whole—partnership ordeal. This… was too much. Draco was tired. Why was this his life. All it would take is Potter breathing in an especially annoying way, or Draco being himself and offending Potter’s delicate sensibilities to set them off. Which was just fantastic. He’d hoped their partnership would last long enough to actually accomplish its goal. Increasing the number of interactions between them would just increase the probability of the inevitable occurring. 

“Potter, kindly inform Malfoy what he missed while he was busy staring at his own reflection in the toilet.”

A few giggles arose into the air. Draco’s face remained neutral. Snape was such a wanker. _Blaise_ was the self-obsessed one, not Draco. The least Snape could do was remember their identifying qualities. Draco’s was so obviously perfection.

“The rest of you, get to work,” The rest of the class got out of their seats and put on lab coats and safety glasses. They were doing a practical, it seemed.

“Er,” said Potter.

Draco turned to the human headache. “We’re doing a practical.”

“Yeah.”

Draco looked around at the equipment everyone was assembling. “A titration.”

“Yeah.”

“Hydrochloric acid and Sodium Hydroxide.”

“Er, no.”

“Sulphuric acid and Sodium Hydroxide.”

Potter looked at him in wonder. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” and Draco got out of his seat and began assembling the apparatus and reagents.

He’d just finished setting up the titration apparatus on his desk when Potter put down a bottle of phenolphthalein next to his conical flask. Draco looked over at him and noticed that he hadn’t assembled anything on his own desk. He looked around the classroom again. _Fuck._ They were doing the practical in partners.

“I prefer to work alone.” Draco told Potter.

“I prefer that my students follow my instructions.” Snape returned, from behind Draco, not missing a single step of his classroom surveillance.

Draco looked at Potter. He was trying not to laugh. _Fuck._ Snape was such a git.

“Stop standing there catching flies with your mouth, Potter,” Snape called.

Snape was such a brilliant arsehole.

“I’ll measure out the Sodium Hydroxide.” Potter muttered, grabbing the pipette.

And then they worked in near silence. Awkward, unbearable, near silence. But peaceful, and productive near silence, as well. And Draco thought, _it’s okay, it’s fine, he’s not getting angry, I’m not getting angry, he’s not breaking anything, I’m not holding back from killing him, this is fine._ The solution in the conical flask that Draco was swirling turned light pink.

“Slow down,” Draco told Potter.

Potter turned the stopcock, causing the slow stream of Sulphuric Acid to become a fucking rapid stream—overshooting the titre.

“You fucking disaster.” Draco snarled as he watched the solution turn from light pink to clear and then more clear until Potter frantically turned the stream off.

Draco scowled accusingly at Potter.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

_Stay calm. Stay calm. Stay calm._

Draco wordlessly threw the solution in the sink and rinsed the conical flask. “Measure out some more Sodium Hydroxide.” He re-filled the burette with Sulphuric Acid. “Swirl the conical flask. I’ll control the titration.”

And so they were enveloped by more near silence. And it was equally as awkward and productive as before. And Draco found it perfectly swell, he really wasn’t in the mood to scream at Potter.

But then Potter had to go and ruin everything, like always.

“Did you lose my number?” he asked.

 _Ah._ “I was a bit preoccupied.” Draco returned. “Lower your voice.” If other people found out they were in a partnership, it’d become a school-wide scandal. Firstly, because Potter and Draco were _famously_ antagonistic towards each other. (Draco swore he’d once overheard McGonagall use them as a bad example of maturity for a class of first-years.) Secondly, because now that Draco had thought about it, the word ‘partnership’ sounded oddly kinky. And that was, well, gay, for one _(scandal scandal scandal!)_ and also unbelievably shocking—Draco and _Potter?_ Together? And not in a bad way? Everyone’s fragile sensibilities would be blown to smithereens, and five months of having to deal with all that was too much. If Draco was going to involve himself with a huge scandal it’d be done on the last day of school, with _style._ They’d all talk about it for years to come. It would become a legacy of sorts. _‘Draco Malfoy, That Stylish Bastard.’_

“You—have it, right?” Potter asked, weirdly timid. 

_“Yes,_ Potter.” Draco sighed, exasperated. “You’d think you were trying to get in my pants or something.” 

Draco liked throwing in little hints of gayness into his insults. It flustered Potter in such a very entertaining way. Potter’s whole lad squad was so casually homophobic—not in a genuine way, Draco didn’t think. More in a ‘toxic lad culture has ingrained this ‘humour’ into my very soul,’ kind of way—Draco liked throwing in hints of gayness and watching Potter fluster his way through a denial. A denial which was _suspicious. Insanely_ suspicious. Draco had always thought Potter looked at Cedric Diggory with way too much hero worship.

Potter flushed furiously. “Sod off.”

There it was. The Suspicious Denial™. “Talk about overreaction.”

“Sod _off.”_

Potter was getting dangerously close to exploding. Draco glanced at Snape and then the clock. He had to catch Luna—who was _mad_ at him, but wouldn’t be for much longer, because Draco would get on his knees if he had to. He would get on his knees and prostrate himself for her forgiveness—he couldn’t risk Potter exploding.

“I’m free Wednesday after school.” Draco said, by way of distraction.

“I have football training,”

Draco sighed. “Thursday after school?” Fridays were sacred. Fridays were off-limits. He could fit in a meet-up before debate club on Thursday.

“Hermione’s got a MUN meet-up,”

That… was not ideal. They were down by one intermediary already, and Draco couldn’t stand Weasel.

“We’re going to have to meet during school, then,” Draco bit his lip in thought. They’d have to be secretive about it, or everyone would make it a spectacle of some sort.

“Slow down.” Potter said. Draco slowed the flow of Sulphuric Acid from the burette. It dripped down by drops. The solution turned progressively clearer, and clearer, until a single drop changed it to colourless. 

Draco turned the stopcock and noted the volume in the burette. “24.7 centimetres cubed.”

Potter uncapped his pen to write on their results sheet. He froze when they both seemed to suddenly recall that Potter’s writing was really, truly, chicken-shit and wordlessly handed the pen to Draco. Draco noted down the titre.

Then, they reassembled everything for trial two.

“Hermione’s busy pretty much every lunch-time.”

 _Shit, Granger._ “What free periods do you have?”

“‘Mione and I’ve only got tomorrow morning together.”

Draco didn’t have a free period tomorrow morning. He sighed. He was so incredibly reluctant to promise away his weekends. 

“What about today after school?” Potter asked.

“I can’t today.” Draco glanced at his watch. There was only half an hour left of the lesson.

Potter frowned. “Is Luna free during lunch? We’ll have to meet without Hermione.”

Draco wasn’t sure how to respond. _The thing is, Potter, Luna kind of hates me right now, so I’d really rather you not mention her. It makes me want to hit you in the eye._

Potter glanced at Draco. “Malfoy?”

Draco noticed that they were leaning in too close to each other. He moved backwards. “I don’t know.” This was impossible. Fridays and Weekends were sacred. “I can ask either Pansy or Blaise to come instead, if you’re alright with potentially being pushed to tears.”

“Doesn’t Parkinson hate me?”

“No, she’s just thinks you’re incredibly stupid.”

“Right.” Potter said. “No.”

“Blaise?” before Potter could respond Draco said, “Actually, no.” Blaise was the very definition of an anti-intermediary. “He’d rile you up for fun.”

Potter looked at Draco, deadpan. “Sounds familiar.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re implying.” Draco replied, wilfully ignorant. He slowed the flow of Sulphuric Acid. “Why is Granger so bloody busy?”

“She’s going places.” Potter shrugged. “What about Luna?”

“24.6 centimetres cubed.” said Draco, as he noted the titre down. They took a moment to reassemble for trial three. Draco refilled the burette, feeling very much at the end of his rope. _It’ll have to be the weekend, won’t it?_ “Are you free Saturday afternoon?”

Potter looked up at Draco in surprise. “You want to meet on the weekend?”

Draco ignored his own previous reluctance. “It’s not a date, idiot. What does it matter when we meet.” 

Potter scowled. “Is Luna free during the weekend.”

Draco pursed his lips. _Stay calm,_ he told himself. “I don’t _know.”_

“How do you not fucking know—”

“You had whipped cream all over your face on Sunday.” Draco interrupted. “Are you even competent enough to attempt planning against Moldy-wart?”

Potter’s scowl darkened. “Stop.”

“Pointing out the glaring obvious?” 

“Winding me up. Just stop. What do you get out of it?”

“Lots of things,” Draco couldn’t help but say, “Entertainment, for one.”

“You’re a fucking arsehole.”

“You just make it so easy,”

Potter stopped swirling the conical flask and crossed his arms. “You didn’t do it when you didn’t know who I was.”

Draco pursed his lips. What the fuck was wrong with Potter? Why did he have to just go and—and mention things that were so obviously not meant to be mentioned? “Golden-boy was just too Golden-hearted,”

Potter grit his teeth. “Malfoy.”

“24.6 centimetres cubed.” said Draco, clinically. He noted it down and began packing away.

 _“Malfoy.”_ Potter repeated.

“Rinse the burette.” Draco told him, holding out the burette for him to take hold of.

“You came because you were worried.” Potter said. “So stop pretending otherwise.”

 _Stop talking. Stop talking before I do something we’re both going to regret._ Draco turned back to him. He repeated, coldly, “Rinse the burette.” and thrust it into Potter’s arms.

Potter avoided taking hold of it. “Stop insulting me every time I say something that makes you uncomfortable,”

_“Take the burette.”_

“Why can’t you just _cooperate?”_ Potter asked him, hotly. The people around them looked towards them nervously. “Why can’t you just _try?”_

 _“I’m trying.”_ Draco hissed. “I’m trying, you fucking imbecile, lower your voice.”

Potter blinked at him. And that is when the burette—from it’s precarious position in between Draco’s hand and Potter’s arm—fell to the floor and shattered.

“Is there one thing that you’ve ever done right in your entire life?” Draco asked, anger threatening to break his composure. “I’m genuinely curious.”

“It fell because of you!”

“It fell because of _you.”_

“It fell because of both of you,” came Snape’s voice. “Because you were both apparently too busy engaging in your moronic mating ritual to properly put away your apparatus.”

Draco felt his face flame. He looked at the floor. Snape had a talent for finding the _perfect_ scathing comment in every scenario.

“Neither of you is leaving until my classroom is clean.” Snape said. He checked their results sheet—thank _fuck_ Draco was good at practicals—“Be grateful I’m not giving you detention.”

Draco glanced at his watch. It was almost the end of the lesson. He looked back at the mess of glass and Sulphuric Acid on the floor. If he had to clean up he’d miss Luna. He felt frustration claw up his throat. What the fuck was _wrong_ with Potter? Why did he—why did he just _say_ things? Why did he just attract misfortune? What had he said, again? Oh, right— _‘Why can’t you just_ cooperate?’ What a fucking child. _Why can’t I just cooperate?_ Draco pursed his lips in irritation. What a fucking _child._ Draco bloody _was_ cooperating. That Potter’s eyes were perfectly intact was proof.

Draco strode over to the side of the class and took hold of the broom and dustpan. He was _trying._ He was genuinely trying. Though apparently he _still_ didn’t meet Potter’s standards. Did anyone? Did anyone meet Potter’s golden standards for being a human? Or being a sub-human. Being an angel. _No-one’s good all the time. No-one. That’s not how humans work._ Draco began to make his way back towards the mess. _No-one’s always good, Potter—contrary to your beliefs._ He began to furiously pick up the bigger shards of glass and put them in the dustpan. _I’m hardly_ ever _good, but I’m not evil—contrary to your fucking beliefs._ He picked up a large piece of glass. _I’m_ trying, _Potter. Even_ you’re _not always good. You’re a knobhead, actually—_ contrary _to your_ fucking _beliefs._

“Malfoy,” Potter said.

_“What.”_

“Napkins,” he held out a handful of paper towels, like a toddler.

“Would you like me to polish your shoes after I’m done cleaning up your mess.” Draco seethed, calmly.

“I’m just trying to help,” Potter muttered.

“Then _help clean up.”_

Potter got on his knees and began mopping up the Sulphuric Acid with the paper towels. “It just—didn’t seem like you wanted help,”

“I look like a servant, do I? Or maybe everyone looks like a servant to you.” Draco moved under the table to get another shard, “We’re all just here to clean up King Potter’s messes.”

 _“That’s not—_ Jesus, Malfoy—I didn’t mean to piss you off.”

Draco glanced at his watch. It was the end of the lesson. He looked around the classroom. Everyone was done packing up. Some people were leaving, already. What if Luna had left already? Draco felt another surge of anger, “Your very existence pisses me off.” He gave Potter a caustic look. “Now fuck off.”

Potter threw the used napkins in the dustpan. He began mopping up the remainder of the Sulphuric Acid. “Well I can’t fucking do much if my very existence causes you grief, can I?”

“What part of ‘fuck off’ do you not understand?” 

“I can’t ‘fuck off,’ Malfoy.” Potter snapped. “We’re partners now. We shook on it.”

“Then just _shut up.”_ Draco spat. “Don’t speak to me.”

“How are we going to get anywhere if you keep— _doing this.”_

Draco threw another shard of glass into the dustpan. It ricocheted and landed a few centimetres away from Potter. “Blast it. Missed my target.”

Potter glared at him. “You know what I think is funny? You were never like this when you were Tacky.”

He was trying to drive Draco mad. He had a death wish. He had a death wish. “You were much more Golden as Golden-boy.”

“What’s your _problem,_ Malfoy?—”

Draco lost it. “What’s my _problem?_ You’re my problem. You’ve been my problem since we were eleven years old. And then we grew up, and you became even _more_ of a problem. And then you—what, after basically committed identity fraud, you expect me to forget everything—”

 _“I was the same person.”_ Potter grit out. “I was the exact same person, and you didn’t—you didn’t attempt to personally eviscerate me at every chance—”

“I didn’t know it was you.” Draco snapped, furious with Potter for making him say it out loud. “I didn’t know it was you—”

“So your problem is me being me—”

“Yes, _exactly—”_

“That’s _bullshit._ That’s bullshit. That isn’t a problem, you’re just—”

“Don’t you dare tell me what my problems are, you entitled prick—”

 _“I’m_ the entitled prick—”

“Good to see you’re finally admitting it—”

“Malfoy, you—”

“God, just _shut up.”_ Draco raised his voice. “Just shut up.” He looked around them. Most people had left. No-one was paying visible attention. They’d both been so stupid just now, mentioning everything out loud. He took a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself down. He looked away from Potter. “Clean up and then leave.”

Potter rubbed furiously at nothing. The napkin in his hands began to fall apart. “Fine.”

“Fine.”

_“Fine.”_

Draco didn’t reply. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t do this with Potter without killing him. Or pushing him to the point that he’d gladly murder Draco. He glanced at his watch. Luna was probably gone by now. She was gone, and there went Draco’s plan. She was still mad at him, and chances were increasing that she’d _stay_ mad at him.

Draco felt so fucking _miserable._ He looked around for stray glass shards, and rounded a few up. When the floor looked clear, he stood up and began to put away the rest of their apparatus. Luna had gone home. She had gone home and she was still mad at Draco. What if she just _stayed_ mad at him? What if she didn’t forgive him? What if this just reminded her of their childhood, when Draco was even _more_ horrible than he was now? It was in her right to hate him. She just never had before, and Draco had started to take that as granted. But it was a privilege, it was the most precious privilege of all. Forgiveness was a privilege and she’d already given it to him once. It would be asking too much of her to give it again.

“Malfoy?” Potter asked him.

Draco felt a strong urge to throw the bottle of phenolphthalein in his hand at Potter’s face. He didn’t respond.

Potter just hovered at their desk, being useless and looking uncomfortable. But Draco didn’t have time for him. Draco was going to go home and have a nice little cry. Sod all his plans for today. Nice little cries were important.

“Malfoy, er, Luna—”

Draco ignored him. He ignored him. He would ignore him forever. _Fuck_ Potter. _Fuck_ him straight to hell.

“—she’s waiting?”

Draco’s head snapped up. He looked towards the door. 

And there she was. Her hair in messy pigtails, radishes in her ears. She gave him a small wave when she saw him. Was he interpreting her behaviour optimistically?

“Is she waiting for you.” he asked Potter.

“I don’t think so,”

And that was all it took. Draco washed his hands at lightning speed and walked out of the classroom. 

“Draco,” she said, and fuck if Draco didn’t get a little watery. He was such a fucking sob sometimes.

“Was it the Wrackspurts?” he asked her, terrified of saying something that would make everything worse.

“It was Pansy,” she returned. 

Draco loved Pansy so much. Pansy was the one true love of Draco’s life. Draco loved Blaise so much as well, that brilliant snitch. They were both the two true loves of Draco’s life.

 _“This_ is for your Wrackspurts.” Luna handed him a water bottle.

Draco took a sip. Lemon infused ginger tea. “Are they that bad?”

“Enough to warrant an intervention,”

Draco looked at her feet. “I’m sorry, Luna. Please don’t be mad at me.”

She took a hold of his hand. “I’m not. It’s okay.”

“You were,”

“I was.” she admitted. “But you were just worried.”

“I was.” Draco agreed. “But I was also out of line.”

“It came from a place of love.”

“Yeah,” said Draco, his voice _embarrassingly_ soft, even to his own ears, “It did. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Draco.” she said. “I’ll still love you, even when I’m mad at you.”

 _Will you?_ Draco thought.

“I will,” Luna said. “Me being angry doesn’t mean I’ll stop loving you. I don’t think I could. What is it that Pansy and Blaise always say?”

“Beggars can’t be choosy,” and before Luna could open her mouth Draco continued, “You’re not a beggar. You can be as choosy as you want.”

“Then I choose to always continue loving you, even through my anger.”

Looney always had the ability to hit Draco right in the heart-strings. To get past his hundreds and thousands of defences and just—just gently strum them.

“You don’t ever have to fear me leaving you,” Luna said.

Draco nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“Okay?” she asked.

He nodded. He cleared his throat. “Do you want to—join?” He kept the topic vague, in case of any eavesdroppers in vicinity.

She blinked her large eyes at him. “Can I?”

Draco nodded. “Yeah. I was—I didn’t have any right to keep you.”

Luna frowned. “Of course you did.”

“I didn’t. I’m not your father.”

“You’re my cousin.”

Draco smiled at her. “I’m your friend.”

She beamed back. “And as my friend I’d hope you're always looking out for me.”

“I always am, and I always will.” Draco felt his smile turn sheepish. “Just not in such a controlling way from now on,”

“Then I promise to not make you cry again,” she hugged him.

He hugged her back, definitely not sniffling (he sniffled _once._ Only _once.)_ “I did _not_ cry.”

“Oh, you absolutely did.” came Pansy’s voice.

Draco’s eyes snapped towards his _fucking audience._

“You’re looking especially adorable, little Dracon,” Blaise waved. “Isn’t he looking adorable, Pans?”

“I could just eat him up,” Pansy agreed. “The little snot-ball.”

Draco glared at them.

Pansy put her hands on her hips and glared back. “Is that any way to treat your saviour?”

“We’ve spoiled him too much Pansy,” Blaise lamented, “he’s grown up _ungrateful.”_

“How long have you been spying on us.” Draco demanded.

“Since the start,” Blaise grinned.

“Oh, all the drama.” Pansy nodded. “It was so _delicious.”_

Draco spoke to Luna—still in his arms—“This is why they’re beggars, Looney. No one else wants them but me.”

“My heart is warm,” Blaise put his hands over his heart. “He _does_ love us,”

“Of course he does, look at him.” Pansy pinched Draco’s cheeks.

Draco waved her away half-heartedly.

And then Blaise smiled, which meant that bad things were to come. “I’d love to keep you in this mood, Dracon, but I fear if I don’t tell you now you’re going to bite my head off later,”

Draco looked towards Blaise, frowning. Blaise gestured behind him. Draco let go of Luna and turned around with a deep sensation of foreboding.

The remainder of his Chemistry class (plus Snape) (plus _Potter,_ for fuck’s sake) was looking at them awkwardly. Draco and Luna were blocking the entrance. _Fuck._ Draco moved out of the way, pulling Luna with him.

“Awww, Draco.” said Susan Bones. “That was so sweet.”

Draco looked at her placidly.

“Don’t you try,” she laughed, shaking her head. “We were all there for the sniffle.”

 _Fuck._ Draco refused to stop looking apathetic.

“Move along, all of you, I don’t have all day.” Snape called, rolling his eyes.

Draco looked at the floor, willing his flush away.

Susan patted him on the arm on her way out.

“Next time, kindly save your sentimental resolutions for places which aren’t the door of my classroom,” Snape said, no real heat to his words.

Draco lost the fight against his flush. “Yes, Sir.”

“Bye-bye, Professor Snape,” Luna smiled.

“Good-bye, Lovegood,” Snape waved her away, amused. “See you on Wednesday, Malfoy.” and in a swish of his lab coat, he was gone.

“You couldn’t have warned me?” Draco hissed out of the corner of his mouth.

“Nope,” Pansy held her stomach as she continued to laugh.

Blaise rested a hand on Draco’s shoulder when he lost his balance due to laughter. Draco shrugged him off in a fit of bad-temper. Luna giggled.

He felt Potter glance at him briefly on his way out. He deliberately ignored it.

When he eventually returned to the classroom to get his stuff, his entire desk was clean. Potter had cleaned up the remaining apparatus. Even Draco’s papers were in a clean bundle. Draco glanced at his results sheet—he’d only recorded results on Potter’s sheet and had planned to copy them at the end of the lesson. It was a surprise when he noticed Potter’s scratchy handwriting. _He copied down the results._

 _For me?_ No, not for Draco specifically. For anyone. Because that’s who Potter was. He’d probably felt guilty. As he should have, honestly. It was his fault the burette had dropped. Well, it was _mostly_ his fault. Like, seventy percent his fault. Well, okay, like fifty-five percent his fault. But, still.

 _Golden-boy’s golden-heart,_ thought Draco, putting his papers in his bag, _His indiscriminately golden-heart—for everyone._ He noticed a piece of torn paper at his desk. He picked it up. It was a number. And then the words, in scratchy, chicken-feet writing, _Text me._

“Hurry _up.”_ Pansy called from the door. “Jesus _Christ.”_

“Was that blasphemy, Prudence?” Draco returned.

“Are you sniffing Potter’s seat?” she returned. “Is that why you’re taking so long?”

“Fuck off, you horrible cow.” Draco finished putting Potter’s number into his contacts.

He slipped the piece of paper in his pocket and made his way out.

Maybe the begrudging partnership wasn’t so doomed after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah.... So much is happening. Like... what is even happening? Do you know? Because I honestly don't think I do.
> 
> What genre is this fanfic? RomCom? Com? Crime? Horror? Historical fantasy? (okay, definitely not the last one)
> 
> But I try. Promise, I do. It's just a bit (A LOT) slapdash. Bear with me, ily if you're reading this.
> 
> ALSO—a note on the Chemistry class:  
> If you've ever taken Chemistry in sixth form (grade 11/12) you know that completing only 3 acid/base titrations in an entire lesson (especially with pre-prepared concentrations of reagents) is actually quite... bad? (In my experience, at least ;( ). I'm not sure if things are different elsewhere, but as someone who used to do IB HL Chem, my teacher would start spitting fire if we didn't manage to finish 3 trials of five different variables (that's 15 total titrations) in one lesson. (Not like I ever finished on time LOL rip.) But we're following fanfic logic. So hush.
> 
> (Did I sound like a snob talking about HL Chem? Ofc I did. T.T)


	5. I'm eternally doomed, leave me be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I jinxed myself.
> 
> 2 and a half months...
> 
> T.T
> 
> I apologise — I just started Uni, and now that I have shit to do ON TOP OF procrastination... it's a bit... well.........
> 
> But I will literally never abandon this fic. Never. So do not fret (if for some reason you actually like the crap my brain comes up with).

The begrudging partnership was _so._ _Fucking. Doomed._

It was so incredibly doomed. Nothing in the world had ever been more doomed.

Draco could say that he realised thirty seconds ago, when, during their brain-storming session, Potter searched up ‘Moldy-wart’ on Google Images and assaulted Draco’s senses with several rather explicit images of moldy warts. 

(“Potter, you half-wit.”

“How was I supposed to know?!”

“Oh, sorry. I forget sometimes that you don’t have a brain.”)

Draco could say that he realised half an hour ago, when Potter _willingly_ sat next to him (what the fuck was wrong with him?) and then manspread his stupid twig legs.

It’d be the most accurate, though, to admit that Draco had realised from the very moment he’d laid eyes on the skinny, speccy monstrosity that any and all interactions between them were cursed.

And so Draco sat there, eyeing Potter disdainfully and wishing that he didn’t have the ability to convert traumatic events into vivid, long-lasting memories.

“It would’ve been faster to identify him by image than go through all the different links,” Potter muttered, in pathetic excuse.

Draco amped up the disdain in his gaze.

“It was a mistake!” Potter flushed, glaring at Draco.

“Why are you sitting next to me.” Draco asked him, disdainfully.

“There are no other seats!”

“The floor’s vacant.” Draco pointed out, with vitriol. “Stop manspreading your stupid, twig legs.”

“Stop whining just for the sake of it, Ferret.” Weasel said, because he was here and Draco’s life was horrible. “Harry isn’t going to sit on the floor.”

“Did anyone else notice how he didn’t say anything about Potter’s twig legs?” Pansy asked, because she was here as well and Draco hated his life.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed about.” Weasel crossed his arms.

“My legs aren’t twiggy,” Potter flushed, turning his speccy glare on Weasel.

Granger patted him on the arm. “Oh, Harry,”

“They’re not twiggy!”

“I like your legs, Harry,” Luna said, taking a sip out of her hot chocolate.

“You’re still manspreading, Potter.” Draco remarked, with increasing irritation. Keeping his legs carefully angled so that they didn’t make contact with Potter’s was giving him a hip cramp.

“I like your legs too, Potter,” Blaise winked. “The twigginess is oddly catching.”

“Oh my god,” said Potter, faintly.

“Blaise, please, let’s not lower our standards,” Pansy said.

“Please,” Draco made a face. “Lets not imply that Blaise has standards.”

Blaise grinned in a manner that was disturbingly salacious. “Jealous?”

“Yeah, I cry myself to sleep every night over the fact that you prefer Potter’s twigginess over my perfect tone.”

“I’m not twiggy!” Potter whined, like a loser. “And you’re not—you’re one to talk, Malfoy.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “There are literal fandoms dedicated to my legs.” He would know, as well, he started them.

Pansy, Blaise and Luna, all of whom were privy to the knowledge that Draco was a narcissist and had started the Tumblr dedicated to Tacky-pillar’s legs, glanced at him. Pansy rolled her eyes, Blaise smirked.

“Run by perverts,” muttered Pansy.

 _You bitch._ Draco smiled at her, “Perverts with good taste.”

“I,” Potter spoke up, “don’t have twig legs.”

“Oh, for god’s sake, Harry,” Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Stop manspreading your twigginess,” Draco snided, wriggling the cramp out of his hip.

“There’s nothing wrong with his twigginess!” Weasel defended.

“Shut up, Ron,” Potter hissed, looking hilariously betrayed.

“Stop teasing him, Draco.” Granger shot Draco a warning look.

“I told you,” said Draco, putting a hand on Potter’s knee and pushing it away from his body, “to stop manspreading, you heathen.”

“Your legs aren’t _toned.”_ said Potter.

Draco didn’t bother replying to that. He just glanced into Potter’s eyes, raised an eyebrow and smirked at Potter’s burgeoning scowl.

“Don’t be pathetic, Potter.” Pansy sighed. “It only gives Draco more ammunition.”

Potter, the widdle baby, scowled harder and crossed his arms. 

_“Anyway,”_ said Granger, when Potter wouldn’t stop sulking, “we can’t find anything on Moldy-wart.”

“Well, then.” said Pansy, smiling. “This has been excruciatingly painful, let’s never do it again—”

“Sit down, Pansy,” Draco said, whilst admiring his cuticles. Pansy scowled at him and sat back down.

“Are you both sure his name’s Moldy-wart?” Granger asked.

“I did think…” Potter frowned.

 _Shocking,_ Draco mouthed to Pansy. Pansy grinned.

“Shut up, Malfoy—I did think that maybe we got his name wrong.” Potter shrugged at Granger’s questioning gaze.

Draco thought back to his first meeting with the super-twat. “Try Moldy-mort.”

Potter typed furiously. “Nothing.”

Draco slid back in his chair and let out a sigh of frustration.

 _“Mort_ means death in French,” observed Luna.

“Moldymort,” thought Draco out-loud, testing the name over his tongue, _“Mol de la mort?_ That doesn’t make sense,”

 _“Vol de la mort,”_ said Luna, smiling, “Poetic, isn’t it?”

“I love it when you speak French,” Pansy murmured.

“No.” said Draco, horrified enough to throw-up. “No, no, no. Pansy, change seats with me. No. No, no. Luna, give me your phone—Pansy, _change seats with me, get up, you bitch—”_

“Vol de la mor?” muttered Potter, frowning.

“Pansy.” Draco grit.

“I’m not sitting next to Potter,”

“Voldy— _voldemort?”_ Potter wondered.

“Idiocy isn’t contagious,” Draco lied.

“I’ll sit next to Potter,” Blaise offered.

“Ew, Blaise,” Pansy made a face.

“Hey!” Weasel defended.

“Blaise,” Draco smiled, charmingly. “What the fuck is wrong with you.”

“Harry’s quite handsome,” Luna added, “You’re not being fair, Draco.”

“Blehhh,” Pansy said.

“I’m handsomer.” Draco returned. And then he spent a solid second regretting all his decisions in life. He’d basically just agreed to Potter being handsome. Which he wasn’t. He _wasn’t._ People were blind. He was a solid six out of ten. It wasn’t—he wasn’t _that_ good-looking. And his legs. Ugh.

“Blehhh,” Pansy repeated.

“Pansy,” Draco looked at her caustically, “You look like a literal pig, let’s not embarrass ourselves.”

“Fuck you, Draco.”

“I’m the handsomest.” Blaise remarked, into the chaos.

There was a moment of sudden silence.

“Fair enough.” Weasel muttered.

Blaise winked at him.

“Granger, your boyfriend’s cheating on you—”

“Found him!” Potter exclaimed.

“Took you long enough,” Draco insulted, turning back to the screen.

Potter rolled his eyes. “His name’s Voldemort.”

And there it was. Moldy-idiot-fuck’s website.

“Comic Sans.” Draco observed. “How gouache.”

“This entire afternoon has been an attack on my senses.” Pansy remarked.

“I love it when you speak Bitch, Pans,” Blaise murmured, making disturbing eyes at Pansy.

“Ignore them,” Draco muttered at Granger’s horrified expression, “They’re depraved.”

“Says _you,_ Draco Malfoy _—_ ”

“Good work, Potter, I’m proud of you!” Draco interrupted, sending Pansy death-eyes.

“You are?” frowned Potter, from beside Draco.

“Of-course not.” Draco scowled at him. “You should’ve had the website up half an hour ago. I have things to do.”

“Good to know you’re still sane.” Potter muttered.

Pansy sent Draco a knowing look across the table. “What _things,_ Draco—”

“What if one of us dms Moldy-fucker?” Draco interrupted, again, sending Pansy double-death-eyes. (He had a thing with Theo in about an hour. It wasn’t depraved. Draco wasn’t a depraved individual. That was Pansy and Blaise’s job.) “Pretending to want to join him?”

“That’s a good idea,” Granger commented, her eyes lighting up, “If we do it right we could get a lot of information out of him.”

“We talking catfishing?” Blaise asked, his eyes lighting up as well.

“No.” said Potter, at the same time as Draco said, “Obviously.”

They looked at each other. Potter repeated _“No.”_ at the same time as Draco said, “Yes.”

They appraised each other in silence, again. Potter had both cut himself _and_ missed a spot while shaving. He was so very incompetent—it was amusing. And he was so good at maintaining eye-contact that it was unnerving. It occurred to Draco that they were just staring at each other.

“Not confident in your catfishing ability, Potter?” Draco asked. 

Potter cocked an eyebrow. “I’ve never had any need to.”

Fuck him. Of course he’d never had any need to. Saint Potty was the flame towards which all the garbage flies gravitated. Draco observed him and his irritating confidence.

“I think,” Draco smirked, “that’s an excuse for being bad at flirting.”

A flush of red, a flare of nostril. A heightened glare. And yet still he didn’t break eye-contact. A thrill went down Draco’s spine, at the challenge of it all. _Sometimes I respect you, Potter._

“I think the appropriate term is ‘shots fired,’” Pansy said. “Is it not, Blaise, Luna?”

“It is, indeed.” Blaise agreed.

“Hey!” Weasel defended. “There’s nothing wrong with being bad at flirting!”

Draco grinned. Weasel was unintentionally awesome sometimes. 

“Ron.” hissed Potter, flaming. “Shut up.”

“What?” Weasel asked, “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, not everyone’s like Zabini—”

“The boy speaks the truth.” Blaise nodded.

Granger elbowed Weasel. “Harry’s not— _bad_ at flirting. He’s—he prefers other modes of courtship. _”_

“Straight to fucking,” Pansy said. “Not bad, Potty.”

Potter choked on his coffee. Draco grinned at Pansy. _Nicely played, Pans._

“Or maybe you’re more of a ‘awkward eye-contact and pining,’ sort of guy?” Draco suggested, revelling in Potter’s glare. _Oh?_ Potter was silent. _Bingo._ Draco beamed.

“And you’re more of a ‘bully the one you like,’ kind of guy.” Granger said, dryly.

Pansy and Blaise burst out laughing.

“You like pulling on pigtails, don’t you, Draco?” Luna smiled.

“Uh,” said Draco, frowning, “No.”

“Hmmm,” murmured Looney, observing him. “Maybe you don’t.”

“Anyway,” said Potter, still blushing. “We’re not catfishing Voldemort.”

“Yes we are, idiot.” Draco returned. “It’s the best way to get information out of him.”

“I,” Granger sighed. “I have to say I agree. You don’t have to participate, Harry.”

“Wouldn’t want to offend Golden-boy’s delicate sensibilities,” Draco batted his eyelashes at Blaise, Pansy and Luna.

“I’m not—shut _up,_ Malfoy.” Potter scowled. “I don’t care. Do whatever you want.”

And that is how they all began to catfish Voldemort.

* * *

“What are you thinking about?” asked Theo, a hair's breadth away from Draco.

“Nothing,” said Draco, recalling Potter’s blush. _A virgin?_ Surely not. Surely with… Cho Chang, was it? Or if not her… the Weaselette, then. Surely.

…Right? Draco remembered Potter’s blush again. Or maybe not. _A virgin, huh._

“Why do you keep smiling,” Theo asked.

“Hmm?” Draco blinked at him. “Your hair looks nice today,”

“Bullshit, Malfoy,” Theo laughed.

Draco smiled and closed the distance between them. “Hmmm…”

* * *

Draco was trying to work. He was trying to focus. He had shit to do, he was in his final year of school. And yet.

And _yet._

“Malfoy, what’s nine times three?” Finnigan asked.

“Sixty-four.” Draco replied, deadpan.

“Thank you, Malfoy!” Finnigan smiled.

Draco turned to stare at Potter. He turned to stare at Potter in order to make him understand that he was on the brink of killing him.

“Wait, isn’t nine times three twenty-six?” Finnigan frowned. “Malfoy, you’re awful bad at maths for a nerd.”

Draco smiled at him, all teeth.

“He was taking the piss, Seamus.” Potter said. “It’s twenty-seven.”

“Thanks, Harry,” Finnigan nodded.

Draco pulled out his phone. 

Me:  What the fuck are you doing

Potter’s phone pinged. He snapped his eyes to Draco’s placid gaze of utter fury and turned to his phone.

Bane of Existence:  Homework

Potter thought he was _so funny._

Me:  Can you fck off

A corner of Potter’s lip kicked up.

Bane of Existence:  Something wrong?

Draco really didn’t have time for this.

Me:  I’m working

Bane of Existence:  So am i

Bane of Existence:  So are seamus and dean

Me: Finnigan’s head is smoking from overuse.

Bane of Existence:  Well, that’s rather rude, isn’t it?

He was smiling, the fucker.

Me:  Fck off

He raised his eyes. Green met Draco’s grey. Another smirk.

Bane of Existence:  Make me.

Draco lifted an eyebrow. _Challenge accepted._

“So, Thomas, what are you working on again?” Draco asked.

Dean Thomas, who was incorrigibly and most definitely looking at female nudes on his phone under the table, started. “Huh?”

Draco smiled at him. “Your homework?”

“Uh, yeah. I’m doing Econs.”

“Econs,” said Draco. “The profitability of porn?”

“What?” Thomas frowned.

“Nothing, nothing.” Draco smiled. “And you? Finnigan?”

Finnigan was staring at Thomas, in a surly manner. Draco was almost certain that Finnigan had a thing for Thomas. It was genuinely tragic. A cursed love.

“Econs, as well.” Finnigan muttered.

“Right.” Draco turned to Potter, who was observing him. “And you.”

“Psych.” returned Potter, coolly.

 _My arse._ “Fascinating.” Draco said, deadpan. “Right, so back to Thomas.”

“I—huh?” Thomas asked, starting to look a bit freaked (Draco’s reputation preceded him) “What are you on, Malfoy.”

“You wound me.” Draco said. “What’s your econs homework?”

“Macroeconomics.”

“Fascinating.” Draco smiled. “Did you know that the porn industry has been termed ‘recession proof?’”

“Well, yeah,” Thomas said. “You don’t stop being horny just because you lose your job.”

“Mhmmm.” said Draco. “An economic recession might actually increase profits for the porn industry, since people spend less time working, and economic instability often results in relationship breakdown.”

Finnigan was frowning at him.

“Less getting laid, more masterbating.” Draco elucidated.

“Ahhh,” Finnigan nodded.

“It’s interesting,” Draco continued, turning his eyes back to Thomas. “Because usually, work impedes sex drive.” At Finnigan’s frown, Draco added, “Overworked, under-sexed.”

“Ahhh,” Finnigan nodded. “Fair.”

“Couldn’t you just have sex on the job?” Thomas asked.

“You could.” Draco nodded. “You could also set yourself on fire, and piss on your boss’s head.”

Finnigan laughed, “He got you there,”

“You could have sex during your break-time.” Potter suggested.

“You could watch porn instead of working,” Draco added. “But that affects productivity. So you don’t.” 

“I wasn’t watching porn.” Thomas said, red-faced.

Draco feigned surprise. “I didn’t say you were. Were you?”

“You—you implied it.”

“I was just making conversation and asking about your homework.” Draco feigned innocence. _“Were_ you watching porn?” 

“No.” Thomas flushed.

“Dean, what the fuck.” Finnigan scowled.

Draco tutted, “What would Ginevra say…”

“She—she doesn’t care.” Thomas flushed.

“Doesn’t she.” Potter said, stone cold.

 _The potty in shining armour,_ Draco thought, irritably. Why did Potter feel the need to always get involved?

“I’m sure she doesn’t care.” Draco smiled at Thomas. Thomas began to smile back. “But she might start caring if you fail your A-levels and can’t get into Uni.”

“Malfoy, you prick—”

Draco continued, “Though there are always other girls. Or boys.”

Thomas made a disgusted face. “I’m not gay.”

Finnigan’s face shuttered. Draco sent him a quick look of pity. 

“You don’t know that.” Draco said.

“I think I do, mate.” Thomas returned. “I was just watching—”

“So you _were_ watching porn.” Draco said. “What would Ginevra say.”

“She— _fuck._ I’m leaving.” Thomas began to pack up his stuff. “Wanker.”

“He’s no fun,” Draco said to Finnigan, once Thomas had left.

“Not much, no.” Finnigan agreed.

Maybe Finnigan wasn’t so bad.

Draco commented, offhandedly, “Ginevra can do better.” _and so can you._

Finnigan smiled back ruefully. “You’re not so bad when you’re not being a dick, Malfoy.”

Draco smiled, “Draco.”

“Seamus.”

“Going after him, Seamus?”

Seamus turned in the direction that Thomas had just gone. He sighed. “Yeah.”

 _‘The course of true love never did run smooth,’_ thought Draco.

And then there were two.

Bane of Existence:  Your a dick

Me:  *you’re

“You’re a dick, Malfoy.” Potter repeated, out-loud.

“A productive dick.” Draco agreed. “Now if you’d kindly fuck off.” When Potter made no move to leave, Draco tilted his head at him. “Are you a masochist? Do you get off on me insulting you?”

“Yeah, what gave it away?” Potter returned.

 _Oh?_ Draco hid a smile. “Your lustful gaze.”

“That’s the footage of you getting punched in the face playing over my eyes,” Potter replied, his lips turning up.

“Talk dirty to me,” Draco said, dryly, and turned back to his annotated timeline.

And the hour in the library passed (strangely enough) peacefully.

* * *

It was so bloody convenient that Draco’s brain had (once again, _conveniently)_ forgotten about Golden-boy’s butt. Because Golden-boy had a butt. And the butt was, for lack of a more poetic description, fit. And also, well (because Draco’s life was hell-fire in the deepest, darkest depths of Tartarus) Golden-boy was Harry Potter.

And if the Dog is nice and Toto is the dog, then by logical deduction, it follows that Toto is nice.

‘Tis simple logic. Logic enough that Draco couldn’t ignore it when faced with hard facts.

Which presented themselves in the form of… Harry Potter’s butt. _Fuck my life._

That’s what Draco said out-loud. Emphasis on _out-loud._

“Fuck my life.” Draco said, when Potter bent over to pick up the plastic funnel he had dropped at the front of the class.

“Language, Malfoy.” Snape snided, not missing a step of his classroom surveillance.

 _Fuck you, my life is falling apart,_ Draco would have said, if he had the balls, and also no brain, and if his eyes weren’t glued to Golden-boy— _oops,_ Harry Potter’s arse.

Which was… 

Maybe Potter was a seven out of ten.

* * *

Draco wasn’t a pervert. He wasn’t.

He _wasn’t._

Draco was simply an academic. And what do academics do? Academics question. They question and explore and contribute to the pool of shared knowledge. It’s the scientific method. Basically.

So that’s what Draco was doing. He was… he was questioning.

Because no way… _no way_ did _Harry-fucking-Potter_ have a nice butt. No, no.

No, no, no.

That was not fair. You can’t be fairly good-looking and have a nice butt at the same time. Draco was an exception. Blaise was also an exception.

And so, Draco questioned. 

_Hypothesis:_ Potter does _not_ have a nice butt.

He used his powers and pushed a pencil off the table as Potter walked by.

 _Results:_ The fabric over the specimen in the position investigated is so affected as to offer a comprehensive view of the—

_Oh, fuck my arse. Fuck my arse with a cactus._

_Results:_ Hypothesis rejected. The world is in ruins.

* * *

“The fuck is it this time.” Pansy rolled her eyes.

“Nothing.” Draco scowled.

Pansy rolled her eyes even harder. “You’re so fucking annoying.”

“The feeling’s mutual.”

* * *

“Draco,” said Luna. “Do you fancy Harry?”

Draco looked at Luna in utmost horror. “No?”

“Oh,” said Luna, “Not yet, then.”

“What?” Draco said, once again, in utmost horror. “I don’t think his arse is fit, shut up.”

Luna smiled.

“Twenty pounds, Pans,” Blaise called, from the back.

“Fuck you, Draco,” Pansy handed Blaise the twenty pounds.

“I hate all of you.” Draco moped.

* * *

Draco was having the time of his life. This was because he was at home. Alone. In peace. In his room. Where no-one could hurt him—namely, his so-called ‘friends’ (also read as: _venomous snakes)_ and Harry Potter’s butt. And his smile. Mostly his butt. And maybe a little his eyes. But mostly his arse.

 _No, Draco,_ Draco told himself, _Remember his twig legs. Remember his knobbly knees. No, no. Knobbly knees. We can’t do with knobbly knees._

“Disgusting.” Draco sneered.

“I agree, but let's keep our feelings to ourselves when your father’s home.” his mother said, from his door.

Draco lifted his head off his bed. “Mum.” and then he processed what she’d just said. “Father’s back?”

“Soon.”

Draco rolled his eyes and flung himself back on his bed. _“God,_ I hate my life!”

“Cut the drama, darling.”

* * *

“Draco.” his father said.

“Father.” Draco returned.

They continued to eat their dinner in silence.

“I’m still gay, by the way,” Draco remarked, offhandedly.

His father put his fork down and turned to Draco’s mother. “Do you see the way he speaks to me?”

“I have eyes, honey.” she returned, cutting her steak impeccably.

Draco loved his mum. His mum was awesome.

“Ironically, I think I might actually be gayer now than I was before.” Draco commented, into the silence, while his father’s face got progressively redder. “So, how was your trip.”

“You are ill-behaved.” his father hissed.

Draco didn’t roll his eyes, but it was a _close_ thing.

“I apologise,” Draco said, instead. And he was so good at maintaining decorum that it didn’t even sound sarcastic.

“It is inappropriate, to say the least, to speak of such things over the dinner table.” his father said. “You can follow your homosexual proclivities in your own time.”

“Okay, father.” Draco nodded. “I’ll turn off my gay for now.”

“Draco!” his father roared.

“Sit down, Lucius.” his mother said, calmly. “He’s just teasing you.”

His father sat down. Draco thought he saw a vein in his temple throb.

“How was your trip,” Draco said, after a while. His mother shot him a dry look. “I mean it sincerely.” Draco added.

“I don’t wish to speak about my life to people who are ill-behaved.” his father, the five year old child in the forty-five year old’s body, said.

“I understand.” Draco replied. His mother shot him another dry look. “I mean that sincerely.” Draco added.

And they ate for a while in companionable silence.

“I quite like the asparagus.” Draco said. 

“As do I.” his mother agreed. “Roxana’s overdone herself today.”

His father sniffed. “There is too much garlic in the asparagus.”

Draco gasped. “A crime!”

“Do not be sarcastic with me.”

“She’s trying to kill you,” Draco continued. “I assure you, I am completely sincere in my worries.”

“Are you implying that I am a vampire.” Lucius Malfoy narrowed his eyes.

“I’m so glad we share this special relationship in which we can converse without words.”

_“Narcissa, look at the way he talks to me!”_

“Sit down, Lucius.” Narcissa said. “Dessert hasn’t arrived yet.”

* * *

“Aren’t I hilarious?” Draco asked his mum when his father had gone upstairs in order to sulk in his room.

His mum sent him an amused glance from her position on the couches.

“I know you were trying not to laugh.”

She turned back to her book. “It concerns me that your only conceivable talent is irritating your father.”

Draco grinned. “But you admit that it’s a talent.”

His mother laughed, then. Like the way a plant unfurls and grows when it’s finally allowed outside after spending all it’s time in a dark chamber. Like something that’s so lovely, everyone knows, intrinsically, that it’s natural; it’s something that’s always meant to be in the way that it is, right now, in this moment. Draco loved his mother’s laugh.

“I’ve had a horrid week.” Draco sat down next to her and sulked.

“I am aware.”

Draco sulked even harder. “And you didn’t think to inquire as to my state of being?”

“I assumed you would do what you are doing right now,”

“Divulge my private matters of my own free will,”

“Bitch, unsolicited, about your life.” his mother corrected.

“Thanks, mum.”

“You’re very welcome, darling.”

Draco smiled.

After maybe a chapter or so, his mother said, “If it makes you feel any better, I’ve invited Remus and Sirius over on Saturday.”

Draco was broken out of his near-slumber. “Saturday? You mean tomorrow?”

“I do, indeed.”

Everything was suddenly awesome. “For lunch?”

“For dinner.”

Draco looked at her. “With father?”

“Won’t that be fun? Sirius and you can have a ball.”

Draco beamed. “Can I invite Pansy?”

“Of course.”

“And Blaise,”

“Yes,”

“Oh, and Looney,”

His mother laughed again, “You can invite whoever you want.”

“That’s brilliant, mum.” 

“I know. You’re welcome.” she turned back to her book. “Oh, they’re bringing their child with them.”

“The one they’re taking care of?”

“Yes, that one.”

Draco looked back at his mum, “Are Sirius and Remus really coming over?” He felt like he couldn’t believe this little burst of goodness after the shitty week he’d had.

His mum looked back at him. “Yes, Draco, they are.”

Draco smiled again.

* * *

“I’ve brought the goods.” Pansy announced, as soon as she had entered his room.

“Pansy,” said Draco, “why the fuck don’t you knock.”

“Pah.” said Pansy. “Your underwear looks awfully tacky, you should change it.”

Draco glared at Pansy in his near-naked state. “No-one’s going to see my underwear.”

“I’ve seen your underwear.”

“No-one _else_ is going to see my underwear.”

“It’s offending me. Why is it so orange.”

Draco pulled his track-suit bottoms up. “Fuck you.”

Pansy sat down and spread the Korean face-mask packs she had brought with her on Draco’s bed.

“For that comment, you get the unscented one.”

* * *

“So you want to fuck Potter.” Pansy said, giving Draco a million heart-attacks.

“Wha— _no.”_ Draco denied, vehemently. At Pansy’s look he repeated, “No. No?”

“Half the year wants to fuck Potter, it’s not a big deal.”

“I don’t want to fuck P—him.” Draco said, feeling his face heat. “What is wrong with you?”

“Many things, but we digress.” Pansy began her second coat of nail polish. “He has a nice arse, I get it.”

“Do you, Pansy,” Draco asked, deadpan. “Do you, really.”

“Of-course not. I have standards.”

 _“I_ have standards!”

Pansy gave him a look. “Clearly.”

“Eat my shit, Pansy.”

“Sounds kinky, but I’ll pass.”

Draco readjusted his headband (also Pansy’s—as was immediately evident from the fact that it had bunny ears. Draco didn’t like to think about when else Pansy had put this headband to use.) “I don’t want to fuck Potter. I just think that his arse is objectively, a little bit, fit.”

Pansy shot him another look. “What’s the difference?”

“You can admire a shirt without wanting to buy it.”

“I usually try on the shirts that I admire in the changing room.”

“Uh, but you don’t always buy them.”

“I buy most of them, after trying them on in the changing room.”

“Pansy, what the fuck relevance does the changing room have in this analogy.”

Pansy tutted. “So naive.”

Draco crossed his arms. “I’ve done things!”

“You’ve kissed and played footsie with Theo.”

“I—I’ve done other things.” Draco argued, feeling himself go red.

“You’ve at most given each other hand-jobs.”

Draco hated Pansy. Especially because she was usually always right.

“Haven’t you ever wondered why you’ve never gone further?” Pansy asked.

“We’re going at our own pace. I’ve got things to do. So does he.”

“If you really wanted to fuck him,” Pansy looked at him, “You’d have fucked him.”

“That’s not true.” Draco denied. “I think Theo’s fit.”

“You can admire a shirt without wanting to buy it, but still end up buying it because you didn’t actually want it as much as you thought you did but you had this weird self-denial thing going on and this analogy is dead now, we can’t use it anymore.” Pansy shook her head. “I’m going to straighten my hair. Call Blaise and ask him where he is.”

“Shall I polish your shoes—”

“Yes, please do.” 

Draco rolled his eyes and called Blaise.

“Dracon.” Blaise picked up.

“Where are you?”

“Almost there.”

“Okay.” and then Draco hung up.

Pansy turned to him.

“He’s almost here—” the door-bell rung, “—he’s here.”

Pansy snorted, “Why’s he ringing the door-bell.”

“He knows father’s home and he thinks it’s amusing to announce his presence.” and then Draco was taking the steps down two at a time.

The evening was coming together, Remus and Sirius would be here soon, and despite the fact that he was pretty much fully grown, Draco couldn’t deny that he was getting butterflies in his stomach out of excitement.

He threw the door open, “Get in—” and stopped dead at the sight of Remus’s smile, “—Remus!” and then threw himself at Remus.

“I like your headband,” Remus laughed.

“It’s Pansy’s.” Draco replied, beaming. “She uses it in her weird sex-games.”

“Stop talking to my husband about sex-games.” Sirius said.

“Sorry, who are you?” Draco asked. “Have we met?”

“Fuck off,” Sirius grinned. “What’s that on your face.”

“It’s a Korean fa—Potter.” said Draco, shuttering off any and all emotion at the sight of Harry-fucking-bane-of-my-life-Potter dawdling around awkwardly behind Sirius.

Potter had his hands in the front pocket of his hoodie. “Malfoy.” he said, awkwardly.

And that is when Pansy came running down the stairs, “Draco, the fuck is taking you— _Remus! Sirius!”_ she flung herself into Sirius’s arms.

“You’ve gotten so big, Pansy,” Remus smiled, when it was his turn to be hugged.

“I’ve gotten bigger.” Draco sniffed, in an instinctual response to always be Remus’s favourite.

“You have,” Remus agreed. “You’re almost my height now.”

Draco gave him a small smile because he loved Remus and Remus was awesome, but he didn’t have it in him to smile wider because _Harry Potter was at his front door and Draco was wearing a Korean face-mask and Pansy’s weird bunny sex-headband and his old T-shirt and grey joggers and this was not okay, why was Harry Potter here, and why did he look so—bloody—UGH!_

“What’s wrong with Draco?” Pansy asked Remus and Sirius. And then she noticed Potter, “Oh my god, this is hilarious.”

Potter was standing to the side awkwardly.

And it struck Draco. “Is this the kid you’re taking care of?”

Remus winced and then continued, apologetically, “We just recently connected the dots, as well.”

Draco wanted to die. 

Remus handed Draco a bag. “We brought you chocolate.”

Draco wanted to die slightly less.

And that is when Blaise showed up, looking like a sex-god. “Holy shit. This is hilarious.”

_Fuck my life._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHHHHHhhhHHHHhhHHHHHhHhHhhhhhHHH
> 
> Where is this fic going. Someone pls tell me.


	6. It had to be today, didn't it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to be on time. I swear.

The world fell away. Draco’s vision hyper-fixated on the creature that stood on his front door.

Harry James Potter. With his green eyes, brown skin and black fur. With his glasses, hoodie and jeans. Standing there awkwardly. 

The fucking _gall._

There wasn’t a trace of repentance on his face. Draco felt the overwhelming urge to hurt him in the most non-kinky and unenjoyable way possible.

Potter was just—he was so bloody shameless. So unused to apologising for his actions. So used to just… just one-upping— _he knew didn’t he?_ Draco realised, in sudden clarity, _there’s no way he would be so calm otherwise._ No, that wasn’t the face Potter made when he was surprised. That was the face Potter made when he was wary of how Draco would react. He wore an utterly remorseless grimace. With his fucking hair all over the place—as if he’d just been fucked senseless—and his stupid, stupid eyes conveying discomfort but never breaking eye-contact. 

There wasn’t the smallest possibility that Harry Potter felt guilty for his _lies_ and _deception_. No, Harry Potter never apologised for anything. Or he did—because he was spineless—but never to Draco. He never had before, and as Draco eyed him, his anger growing exponentially, he reminded himself that he wouldn’t now, either.

 _How dare he? How dare he do this? How dare he do it_ again? _How dare he hold this much—how dare he make me feel like this?_ Draco hadn’t given him permission. Draco had done his express best to _prevent_ Potter from ever—just— _surprising_ him like this. From knowing more about Draco than vice-versa. Draco had double, triple-locked his doors only to find Potter hiding under his bed. Like a bloody _stalker,_ or something _._ Like a—like some—Draco didn’t like feeling like he didn’t have the upper-hand.

That was the crux of the matter. Draco didn’t like feeling out of control. He didn’t like the reminder that despite his _very_ best efforts, despite _everything,_ Potter held this strange power over him. _Look at the bastard—how vacant the inside of his skull must be,_ Draco wondered— _he doesn’t even know it._

It was perhaps time for Draco to admit that his indifference was a sham. He didn’t like what Potter did to him.

Incite within him ardent homicidal rage, for one.

“This is gorgeous.” Blaise remarked, and Draco could have _killed_ him.

“Isn’t it?” Pansy sighed, in a second becoming the target of Draco’s fury.

“Uh, Draco?” Remus asked. “Are you…” he trailed off, clearing his throat, “Shall we enter?”

Draco cut his glare to Remus. “You knew.”

Remus winced. “Only since a few days ago.” He was such a sincere person, Remus.

Draco considered this. He decided that he loved Remus too much to hold a grudge. He turned to Remus’s lesser half, “You knew, as well.”

“Knew what,” Sirius asked, blankly.

“Never-mind,” Draco sent him a scathing look, “it’s beyond your mental capacity.” What was the point of holding a grudge against someone too stupid to understand you were holding a grudge against them? Scowling, Draco moved backwards and opened the door so everyone could enter. 

“Didn’t need much of a mental capacity to marry Remus, did I?” Sirius mocked, as he entered.

“Fuck you.” Draco snarled.

“Sorry about that,” Remus shook his head, as he passed Draco.

Potter dawdled for a little too long at the front step. “Take your time.” Draco snapped.

And then they were all inside. Scratch that, Draco didn’t give a shit about that. And then _Harry Potter_ was inside. Inside the place where Draco was raised. 

A sudden intense discomfort overcame Draco. It was how he imagined it must feel like to walk on stage and only realise that you were naked after strutting around for a half hour. He felt exposed, and he didn’t like it.

“Oi, Draco,” Sirius called.

“What.” Draco snapped. (He was— _surprise!—_ in a snappish mood.)

Sirius looked at him with an expectant expression, too stupid to fear Draco’s snappish mood. “Get over yourself, come _on.”_

_Ah._ Draco took off his face-mask. Taking off Pansy’s headband, he ran a hand through his hair in an effort to calm himself down and remind himself of what _truly_ mattered. After a second, he said, “Drawing room.”

Sirius broke out into a grin.

“Wait, Padfoot—” began Remus, to no avail because—

“Lucy!” Sirius bellowed, “I’m _home!”_ before changing into a dog and sprinting inside.

“Argh!” came Lucius Malfoy’s terrified squawk a second later.

Draco felt his lips turn up instinctually at the sound. Lucius’s Malfoy’s express discomfort was the goal of today’s dinner. Or it had been, before the one variable Draco never really managed to calculate showed up at his front step.

Remus sighed long and slow, rubbing a hand over his face before asking, “Cissa’s in the living room?”

“Yeah,”

“Drinking?”

Draco couldn’t help his grin. “Well, yeah.”

“Right.” and then Remus fled to his haven of excellent company and quality liquor.

With Remus and Sirius gone, the smile on Draco’s lips, which he had barely realised was there, disappeared. All that was left was… _it._ The creature. Harry Potter. 

_Why does he bloody_ stare _at me so much?_

“Stop gawking.” Draco said, before turning to Potter’s gawk. Which he had to consciously remind himself was _not_ cute. At all. Draco and Potter were _not_ friends.

 _Come on, Draco, you’re pissed at him—_ Potter’s artless eyes were _not_ charming— _he’s a self-entitled wanker with knobbly knees._

“You’re too vicious to be a bunny.” Potter blurted.

Draco was trying too hard to pretend he didn’t give a fuck to enjoy the exacerbated discomfort on Potter’s face. Fucking Pansy and her fucking bunny headband. _Don’t let it get to you, don’t let him win._

“That’s part of his charm, Potty. Lashing out from abandonment, are we?” Pansy pouted, latching herself onto Draco’s arm in a show of support. And for that, Draco could have kissed her.

The discomfort on Potter’s face morphed into something more guarded. He looked at them all like a threatened animal, shifting his weight from foot to foot, as if he expected Draco to throw decorum out the window and just jump him at the entrance to his own home. Which, honestly, Draco would have done, were he raised in a barn and not by the fine, noble hands of his beautiful mother.

“Weird, Potter. The ears were _really_ doing it for me.” Blaise touched the headband in Draco’s hand in his own—however misguided—attempt at showing support.

Draco shot him an annoyed look. Blaise grinned back.

And that is when the front door opened. _What new hell have you prepared for me now?_ Draco asked the universe.

“Oh,” greeted Looney, “Harry, you’re early,”

* * *

“Wasn’t that a pleasant surprise. _”_ Pansy said, as soon as they were upstairs and changing rapidly into their dinner clothes.

Draco turned to her accusingly, “What the fuck, did _you_ know, as well—Jesus, Pansy, my eyes are burning.” Draco scowled at a near-naked Pansy. “Do you mind?”

“No, do you?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Shame,” Pansy returned, still in her underwear and making no move to rectify this fact. “So, are you and Potter going to have some sneaky, post-dinner anger-sex in here—”

Draco was going to _kill_ her. “Are your boobs sagging?” he interrupted, as caustically as he could manage.

Pansy’s head snapped down to her chest, as Draco had known it would. Birds of a feather, and all.

While Pansy was preoccupied with being a rather incorrigible narcissist, Draco took a few deep breaths in an attempt to regain a modicum of… balance. 

_Okay,_ he told himself, _Potter is inside my house right now. I've spent the last seven years ignoring the fact that I thought he was fit. I can spend the next few hours doing the same. He has knobbly knees. And he’s an idiot. And even when he finally realises that he’s slightly gay, he’ll_ never _go for me. I’m not good enough for Saint Potty._ Draco scowled at his open hands. _Not that_ I’d _ever go for_ him, _either! Anyway,_ he reasoned, quickly, _I’m fucking_ furious _at him._ And he was. He was, truly. It was just… without the direct reminder that he was pissed at Potter (which came in the form of his messy mug), his childhood (and perhaps, life-long) insecurities took the fore.

 _Will there ever come a day that the very existence of Potter doesn’t make me hate myself, a little?_ Draco stared at the grey sweater on his bed. _Will he ever just let me live in peace?_

 _Focus on your fury, Draco. Your fury you can deal with._ It was the easiest thing in the world, to be mad at Harry Potter.

Shaking his head, Draco changed into his grey sweater and close-fitting black trousers. _Focus on your anger, focus on—_ he caught a glimpse of his reflection and all thought evaporated. He threw the sweater off in disgust and staring, shirtless, at his wardrobe, had a mini mental break-down. He tried on two other button-downs and one desperate tank top before Pansy threw a green sweater at his face and barked at him to wear it. After that, he only spent fifteen minutes staring at his reflection and regretting all his decisions in life before being kicked out of his own room. He then spent only five minutes regretting all his decisions in life _outside_ his locked door before finally, finally admitting that he was being a coward. Wanting very much to rather chew glass with Stalin, he trudged slowly down the staircase to meet the bane of his existence in a lovely dinner.

 _Remember,_ he told himself, _you’re mad at him._

* * *

As always, once in direct view of the object of his thoughts (and dark, shameful desires) Draco’s fury rose from the ashes. He needn’t have worried, really. Potter’s face inspired irritation.

Potter looked at him in panic from his position between Blaise and Luna. 

That look could have meant many things. From _‘oh, no, it’s Malfoy, he wants to kill me,’_ to _‘oh, no, it’s Malfoy, green makes his skin look drab,’_ to _‘oh, no, I wasn’t hallucinating, I’m actually inside Malfoy’s house right now.’_

Draco could have spent the next decade deliberating the nature of Potter’s panic, if his fury hadn’t seized him violently. It really was the tragedy of Draco’s life that he would never affect Potter as much as vice versa.

“Draco,” greeted Luna, nodding to his sweater, “Pansy chose, didn’t she?”

Draco offered her a one-shouldered shrug in a show of his utter fury. He hadn’t forgiven her for somehow knowing before he did.

Luna smiled at his petulance, making him feel all at once like a child, “Will you forgive me if I say you look handsome?”

The answer was yes, but Draco wasn’t going to admit to it in front of Potter. He looked at her coolly.

“You look handsome,” Luna smiled fondly. They both knew very well that she was appeasing him. “Green looks lovely on you,”

“I know,” Draco sneered, appeased.

He was abruptly less appeased when he caught Potter shooting Luna a frightened look. _What, you don’t think green looks lovely on me?_ What a bastard.

“You look _especially_ delectable today, my fire-breathing Dracon.” Blaise called, as entirely relaxed as Potter was rigid.

“It means so much, coming from you,” Draco couldn’t help but return, in sarcasm.

“He looks lovely, doesn’t he, Harry?” Luna asked Potter, innocently.

The terror on Potter’s face would have been amusing if it didn’t feel so very shit at the moment. A hard weight settled in the bottom of Draco’s stomach.

“I couldn’t give less of a fuck what someone at the calibre of Potter thinks of me,” Draco drawled. The truth was more like: _I_ wish _I didn’t give a fuck what someone at the calibre of Potter thought of me,_ but they were taking liberties today and Draco had never been a very honest person, anyway. And besides, fuck Potter in the arse. Draco would rather die than stroke his already over-blown ego.

Blaise raised an eyebrow and like the wise man he was, made a visible effort to fight back a laugh.

“What’s that supposed to mean.” Potter asked, hotly.

Draco looked at him placidly (oh, how good he was at pretending he didn’t give a shit), “How do you function in society if you can’t read subtext?”

“I’m asking why you implied what you did.” Potter retorted. “How do _you_ function in society if you can’t understand direct meaning?”

Well, then. Draco narrowed his eyes.

Blaise retracted his arm slowly from the back of Potter’s seat. Luna looked between the both of them in interest.

“It was a harmless remark based on sincere observation, I don’t understand why it affected you the way it did,” Draco called on every single strand of control within his body. “But you’ve always been sensitive when it comes to me, haven’t you?”

“You wish.” Potter hissed, flushing.

That hit uncomfortably close to home. Draco broke his gaze and looked around the living room for somewhere to retreat. “You’d think that after all these years, you’d have better comebacks.” He glanced back at Potter—red-faced and flustered—and wished that the sight of him wasn’t so fucking endearing, even through the lens of Draco's anger. Retreat, then, it was. “Excuse me,” he muttered, before near running to his mum and Remus.

* * *

“Stop looking so miserable, darling,” his mum said to him. “It’s gouache.”

Draco smiled at her, artificially, “I _am_ miserable.”

She sighed. “Your child has made my child miserable, Remus.”

Remus sighed, as well. “Your child has made _my_ child miserable, Cissa.” Draco took comfort in this fact. He glanced back at a brooding Potter, still situated between Looney and Blaise.

Narcissa took a sip of her wine, and remarked, lightly, “It seems your child’s misery is of comfort to my child.”

“Rather a predicament, isn’t it?” Remus observed, amused.

Draco looked between the two people he loved probably the most in all the world. “You’re both awful at consolation.”

“Were we consoling, Remus?” his mother asked. “I wasn’t aware.”

“Neither was I,” Remus returned, smiling as he took another sip of wine.

Draco pouted. “Can I at least have some wine for consolation.”

“Only if you say it in French.”

 _“Puis-je avoir du vin,”_ Draco rolled his eyes. _“Pourrais-je vous implorer de me donner du vin s’il vous plaît, ma charmante mère.”_

“Everything sounds so lovely in French,” Remus noted, “Even sarcasm.”

“You’re too smart to be married to Sirius,” Draco said to him.

Across the room, next to a twitching Lucius Malfoy, Sirius’s head perked up.

“You’re too smart to be married to Sirius,” Draco repeated, more loudly, so that Sirius could hear, “I’m younger than him and more handsome.” 

Sirius began to growl. Draco’s father flinched at the sound.

“If you can torture Sirius, then you’re not truly miserable.” Narcissa noted.

“My child looks more miserable than your child, Cissa.” Remus agreed.

Draco felt a throb of irritation that Remus was now taking Harry bloody Potter’s side over his. “Your _foster_ child is an empty headed cretin who doesn’t know how to hide his misery.”

Remus looked back at Draco, his eyes warmly amused, “Do I have to protect my child from you, Draco?”

Draco scowled. “He can protect himself.”

“If you can feel irritated that Remus is favouring _his_ child over you, then you’re not truly miserable, Draco.” Narcissa noted, swirling her wine in her cup.

“You don’t like him more than me, do you?” Draco asked Remus, overcome by a surge of competitive spirit.

Remus burst out laughing, “You never change, little dragon,”

Draco tried putting on his _‘I’m a precious gift to mankind,’_ face. “Do you, Remus?”

“You’re too old for that— _connerie,_ ” his mother said, scathingly. “Pardon my language, Remus,”

“Not at all,” Remus toasted her.

Draco sent his mum a sheepish look, “It was a powerful tool when it worked.”

“It was,” his mother agreed, “You used it well.” She sent him a look. “I hope you’ve realised that changing times call for changing tools.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I can’t use those changing tools on _Remus._ He’s _married—_ to an imbecile,” Draco couldn’t help but add, “but still.”

It took a second for Remus to understand the implication behind their words.

“You’re both terrifying,” he complimented. “And you get more alike every passing year.”

Draco beamed at him. “Thank you!”

His mum looked at him with secret affection in her eyes. “You can have wine with dinner.”

And so, in between his two favourite people in all the world, Draco regained equilibrium. They remained in their happy corner of excellent company and great liquor (not that Draco was allowed to touch any before dinner) until Pansy _finally_ came strumping down the stairs.

“Took you bloody long enough,” Draco hissed, as he smiled and kissed her cheek.

 _“One_ of us has to look good.” she hissed back, smiling up at him.

“I think.” Lucius Malfoy called to the room, trying to sound powerful and commanding. (The second hand embarrassment destroyed Draco’s meagre will to live.) “It is time for dinner.”

Draco finally let himself meet Potter’s gaze for the briefest moment. The irritation that seized him at the sight was a comfort. The skip of his heart, less so, but he couldn't have it all.

* * *

Draco’s plan, as they seated themselves, was to ignore Potter’s existence.

If only Potter would bloody _stop staring at him._ Draco felt his lips turn up in a sneer. He pulled the sneer back. He cleared his face. _Ignore him._

Yes, anyway. So Draco’s plan was to _ignore_ Potter. Draco reminded himself that he hated Potter. What other reason would Potter always be on his mind? Why else would his existence be so thoroughly thought-consuming? _Don’t go there, Draco, for your own sanity._

It was a bit hard when they were seated directly across from each other. Draco tightened his jaw. _You’ve faced him for nearly seven years, a few more hours is nothing,_ he told himself. 

Except… except those seven years had been before they’d achieved this middle-ground of partnership. Those seven years had been before Draco had gotten a frightening taste of what life could be like without hating Potter. Without the frightening knowledge that taking away the hatred didn’t actually take away the obsession, at all. Without the _terrifying_ knowledge that Potter had an unfairly nice arse and was a seven out of ten. Without the bloody knowledge that Potter was Golden-boy, and had inadvertently been the subject of Draco’s dirty dreams for the past two years. Without the fucking, heart-stopping knowledge that Draco could have _fun_ with Potter.

Draco didn’t know what to do with that knowledge. He didn’t know how to do anything except be pissed at Potter. So that’s what he did.

He reminded himself of his worth in Potter’s eyes, or rather, his lack thereof. _He knew he was coming to my house but he didn’t think to tell me because to him, it just doesn’t matter._ Potter didn’t care about showing up unannounced, because catching Draco in an unfairly vulnerable position just didn’t matter to him. It didn’t occur to Potter that catching Draco off-guard was a big deal, because to him, Draco was just another rando on the street. It shouldn’t matter if some random person sees a facet of your life you don’t usually make public. Who cares what some rando thinks? It was an unfortunate truth that to Draco, Potter could never be ‘just another rando’. Draco let that realisation seep in and, horrifyingly, turn into a dull ache in his chest. Draco had never been good with pain. _Turn into anger,_ he pleaded, _turn into anger, like you always do._ He glanced up at Potter, who was caught in a conversation with Luna. He traced the curls of his black hair with his eyes, the curve of his tanned neck, his adam’s apple. _I don’t matter to you at all, do I,_ and at the hurt that followed, he pleaded, _stop affecting me like this, who gave you the right?_

Potter’s lashes were quite possibly the darkest and longest in the world. They brushed the lens of his glasses. _I wish I’d never met you at all,_ Draco thought, forcing his eyes to his plate. For once, he was left pleading for an anger that never really came. The best he could do was ignore. Compartmentalise. 

Potter was a cause of pain. Draco did not like pain. Draco avoided pain and subsequently the causes of it, also. _Stop thinking, stop feeling. At least for now. Don’t show weakness in the face of the enemy._

 _This soup,_ Draco thought, singularly, _is nice._

“Harry,” Draco heard Potter answer.

“What year are you in, Harry?” Lucius Malfoy asked. Draco nearly choked on his soup. His plans of being blasé took a nice little luxury vacay to Hawaii. Draco wished the bastards had taken him with them.

He looked up in tightly concealed foreboding. His father was eyeing Potter disdainfully—likely passing judgement. _Why_ the _fuck_ was Potter wearing a hoodie. Fuck’s sake. Draco looked at Sirius scornfully. _Why the fuck did you let him dress himself, you blubbering buffoon?_

“The same year as Ma—Draco.” Potter said, wincing as Draco’s name left his tongue. _Fuck you, too,_ Draco shot Potter the imaginary finger.

He then watched in horror as recognition shot across Father’s face.

“Harry _Potter.”_ Father said.

 _Fuck. My. Life._ thought Draco. _Seriously. If any higher being exists, fuck my life right now. Fuck it in the arse and fuck it without mercy._ Draco paused. That sounded a tad too enjoyable for punishment. _Never-mind. Just throw me in a ditch full of hungry scorpions._

Potter cut his gaze to Draco and then back. “Yes?”

Pansy and Blaise were watching the proceedings like a horse race that was going to win them thousands of pounds. Draco didn’t even have time to feel annoyed at them.

He looked at his mother for help. His mother took a sip of wine and smiled blandly. _Fuck._ He was on his own. He turned his focus back to his father and Potter.

“The youngest to make the Hogwarts Under Eighteens football team,” his father said.

Potter had the gall to be bashful. “Yeah,” He glanced at Draco, again. “How did you… ?”

_Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’t say it._

“Draco speaks of you all the time.” his father revealed, disdainfully.

Draco _refused_ to react. He refused to react to _anything._ Not even the sound of Pansy’s delighted gasp. (There would be consequences, of course, but those consequences would come later.) Draco sat there emulating nonchalance, and wished, like he had never wished for anything before, for that pit full of starving scorpions.

The starving scorpions did not come. Draco took a sip of his wine and looked at his mother calmly in a cry for help. His mother took a sip of her own wine and looked calmly back. _Fuck._ She was testing him.

Fine. _Fine, fine fine._ Draco would prevent the end of his life, all by himself. Fuck everyone. Loyalty was dead.

“In all fairness, I was complaining about how unfair it was.” Draco said, as he cut into his salmon and refused to let anyone see how this was affecting him. _Don’t show a single tremor in front of the enemy._ “Wouldn’t want you to misunderstand, Potter,” Draco added, making it sound like an after-thought. 

“I, for one, commend you, Harry, on your football prowess.” his father said, shooting Draco a disappointed look. “Your father must be very proud.”

Draco swallowed an eye-roll. His father was a _child._

“Uh—thank you, yes, he—uh, he is.”

Harry Potter: The Pinnacle Of Eloquence.

Draco looked at his father calmly before turning to Potter. “Your father must be even prouder of all your work with the local orphanages.”

Potter’s eyes widened— _Don’t do that, Potter. All that green—_ and with a new surety, he answered, “He is.”

Draco gave him a bland smile. “As he should be.”

“And what charities are _you_ part of, Draco?” his father asked.

Draco took a sip of wine before answering, “None, regrettably. I’ve had no time with the chess club, debate team and LNAT prep.” he pretended to lament this fact, “All we’ve done in the debate team is donate our prize money to Red Cross,”

“Congratulations on the win,” Remus smiled. Draco smiled reflexively back. Remus was _The Best._

“Draco quit the football team,” Father continued, for no reason at all other than because he liked embarrassing Draco in front of everyone. “Didn’t you, Draco?”

 _Right._ Draco’s new goal was to destroy his father in polite conversation.

“I did,” Draco agreed, amicably. “It seemed the least pertinent to my career choice as compared to my other extracurriculars, and I didn’t want my grades to suffer as a consequence of taking on too much.”

“Harry.” his father demanded. “How many extracurriculars do you do.”

“Three.” Potter answered, uncomfortably.

 _“Three.”_ his father repeated, looking at Draco. “And can I ask how you’re doing in school?”

“No, Lucy, that’s rude.” Sirius answered, on Potter’s behalf.

Draco held out his palm to Sirius. Sirius and him exchanged high-fives.

“Regardless,” his father spluttered, “Harry, your parents must be _so proud_ to have such a _brilliant_ son.”

It was laughable, really, that Draco had once upon a time wanted nothing more than his father’s acceptance.

“His parents are proud of him,” Draco said, quietly, “I think, more so because he’s kind and brave and sure, rather than his academic and extracurricular achievements.” He swirled the wine in his glass, “Though I have no doubt that they are proud of those, as well.”

“Draco’s right.” Potter agreed, looking more than ever like Golden-boy.

His father smiled tightly. “Your parents are lucky to have you.”

Draco smiled at Potter, completely bypassing his father. “And you’re lucky to have them—as well as your foster parents,” Draco nodded to Remus and Sirius. “Especially Remus.”

Sirius nodded. At least he was in agreement.

Potter smiled back. _Stop that,_ Draco thought, his chest throbbing uncomfortably at the sight. He looked back at his father.

“Yes.” his father said. “They’re very lucky to have such a _grateful_ child.”

Draco sipped his wine contentedly, ignoring his father. If he was waiting for adulation, he was in for a very long and awkward wait.

“Uh, thank you?”

“You are _welcome.”_ his father answered, tightly.

Draco kept sipping at his wine in nonchalance. “This wine is lovely, Mother. Bordeaux?”

A flash of amusement crossed his mother’s eyes. “Well recognised.”

Draco smiled, “I’m lucky enough to have inherited your refined taste.”

His mother smiled into her wine glass. His father scowled into his own.

“How is school going for the rest of you?” Remus asked.

And the conversation evolved into a _much_ more civilised one. His father only made one other notable contribution, when Sirius deliberately brought up being a great big homosexual, as everyone had known he would.

“The kids in this country are so lucky they’re being brought up in a more inclusive environment than we were,” Sirius said. Draco grinned behind his napkin at what he knew was coming. “It took me way too long to realise I was in love with Remus.”

Remus shot him a warning look that wasn’t really a warning look at all because everyone loved fucking with the great big bigot Lucius Malfoy.

Father made a disdaining face.

“You look constipated, my dear brother-in-law.” Sirius said. “Whatever seems to be the problem.”

 _Okay, fine._ Draco acquiesced to himself. _I understand why Remus married him._

“Such topics are not appropriate for the dinner table, _Sirius.”_

“I’m talking about love, not se—”

“Sirius.” Remus said.

“Love isn’t inappropriate.” Sirius said, instead.

“You’re not wrong,” Draco agreed, because he’d promised himself he would destroy his father in polite conversation.

“Draco, for god’s sake.” his father snapped. “Sirius, if you would stop behaving this way in front of my only son.”

“I’m afraid that won’t make much of a difference,” Draco retorted, calmly. Telling himself that Potter probably knew _anyway,_ he continued, “I was in love with Remus before I knew Sirius even existed.”

“Yeah!” Sirius said. “If anything, you should be telling Moony to stop being so sexy.”

“Si—” Remus choked on his wine.

Draco looked at Sirius disdainfully until he noticed his father was doing the same. Then, he stopped. Because fuck his father.

“Sirius, you’re lucky you didn’t grow up in an inclusive environment. If you had even one other source of competition, you’d never have gotten Remus.”

“You talk big for a _child.”_ Sirius sneered.

“The day I turn eighteen,” Draco returned, supercilious, “is the death of your marriage, old-man.”

Sirius turned to Father, outraged. “Your only son has been trying to steal my husband since he was seven years old.”

Father turned in fury to Draco. This was nothing new to him. Draco had never been discreet about his ardour.

“It’s true.” Draco admitted, languidly. “I am incorrigible in love.”

“Oh my god,” Remus laughed, quietly.

“Ask Pansy,” Draco continued, sipping some more of his wine. “Or Blaise, or Looney.”

“Incorrigible.” Blaise nodded, fervently. _“Absolutely_ incorrigible.”

“It’s beautiful, it is.” Pansy pretended to wipe a tear.

“Draco loves Remus _very_ much.” Looney nodded, sincerely.

Draco turned to his father as if to say, _What can you do, I’m as gay as they get._

Father opened his mouth to no doubt say something incriminating about Remus. (He truly was a fool. If the words had left his mouth, Sirius would have leapt across the table and killed him right there while Draco cheered him on.)

“I loved Remus before I knew he was gay. Before I really knew about the concept of sexuality.” Draco continued, smiling at Remus fondly.

Remus groaned and covered his face with his hands, embarrassed beyond words.

“Don’t be shy, Moony, you’re lovely,” Sirius proclaimed, dramatically.

 _“Far_ too lovely for the likes of Sirius, but, hey, even the unfortunate in life get lucky sometimes,” Draco drawled.

“Don’t hate me because you ain’t me, Ferret-face.”

“I can say with painful sincerity that I have never, for even a second, wanted to be a vagabond.”

Sirius turned to Lucius Malfoy, his glee showing even through his mock-outrage. “What kind of husband-stealing scion have you raised!”

“Narcissa,” said Lucius Malfoy, weakly. 

Narcissa Malfoy spoke up, then, “If I was a man, I’d be half in love with Remus, myself.”

Draco beamed at his mother. Remus looked at her in betrayal. Sirius nodded contentedly. Lucius looked like he was about to faint.

“I’m afraid,” Father said, weakly, “that I will have to excuse myself.” and then Father fled.

Silence descended on the table for roughly ten seconds.

“You’re both going to be the death of me.” said Remus.

Sirius and Draco broke out into matching grins. Blaise and Luna broke into applause.

“Well played, nephew.” 

“Don’t call me nephew, I don’t want to be associated with a vagabond.”

“You don’t see _me_ complaining about being associated with a blond ferret, do you?”

“That’s because,” Draco drawled, “you’re _not_ associated with a blond ferret. You’re associated with a devastatingly handsome young man who would have stolen your husband away from you if your husband wasn’t half as much in love with you as he _unfortunately_ is.”

Pansy joined in the applause. “Well said.”

“Pansy.” said Sirius, hurt, “I thought you had a crush on me.”

“Only for a week.” Pansy admitted.

“Ha!” Draco mocked. “She had a crush on me for _years.”_

“They’re rather capricious, aren’t they?” Narcissa observed to Remus.

“My heroes.” Remus agreed, sarcastically.

“No, Moony, I don’t care about that child, you’re the only one for me—” began Sirius.

“Mum, when’s the dessert getting here?” Draco asked, instead. He wanted his chocolate and he wanted it now. “You’ll be happy to hear, Remus, that we’re having _chocolate.”_

And that got a lovely, dimply, smile out of Remus.

Draco was proud to say that he hadn’t glanced at Potter even _once_ since the beginning of the conversation. If only the fucker would stop _staring._

* * *

Draco was yelling at Potter to _‘stop looking at me, already!’_ in his mind when his mum shooed all the children very politely up the stairs and into Draco’s room.

And Draco thought, _No. No way is Potter coming into my room._ Unfortunately, that is indeed what occurred. Draco hated the world and also his life. The distraction of other people wasn’t _enough_ if they were in Draco’s room. Draco hadn’t gotten over the fact that _Harry Fucking Potter_ was _inside_ his house right now. If anything, pretending to not care had only made Draco care even more, as was so often the case in the joke that he called his existence.

“I’m so glad you got to come, Harry,” Looney was saying to Potter. “Draco’s so funny when he’s making Uncle Lucy angry, aren’t you glad you got to see it?”

Potter muttered something indecipherable, which Draco didn’t hear because it was just now really hitting him that Potter knew that he was gay. Of course, Potter was likely to have strongly suspected—what, with Tacky’s rather… vocal observations about Golden-boy’s butt. And yet still, the idea of someone he didn’t really trust, _knowing…_ Draco walked faster.

In a few steps they were in his room. Draco shut the door behind him, and for the first time since about the start of dinner, he made direct eye contact with Potter. The sight of those eyes, gratifyingly, filled him with restrained anger.

“Woah.” muttered Blaise, moving backwards.

“What,” hissed Draco, boring into Potter with his accusatory gaze, “are you doing here.”

Potter looked taken aback, “I—dinner. I was here for dinner—”

“What are you doing in my house _without informing me beforehand.”_ Draco corrected, tightening his jaw.

Potter’s expression shuttered. “I—”

“Too much of a _coward_ to tell me?” Draco hissed, walking forward, his fury doubling with every step.

Potter glared. “W—”

“What happened to all your notions about _honour,_ you _liar.”_ Draco spat.

Potter stepped forward, as well. “I _wasn’t—”_

“We’re—gonna go,” Blaise said, quickly, pulling Looney and Pansy with him.

Pansy gave Draco a quick thumbs up before she left, with Looney calling after them, “Don’t break anything!”

The door to Draco’s bedroom shut. Something inside Draco broke.

“How _could you.”_ Draco snarled, moving forward, wanting nothing more than to scratch Potter’s face to shreds.

“You’re not _listening—”_ Potter grit out.

“All that talk about partnership,” Draco scoffed, looking down at Potter disdainfully (oh, the _power_ that came with being taller than him), “is this how you treat your partner, Golden-boy? By lying to them and going behind their back? How _dare_ you show up at my house.”

“I don’t— _listen to me, Malfoy.”_ Potter pushed Draco a step or two backwards. “I was _invited—”_

“Your _foster_ parents were invited.” Draco sneered, pushing _Potter_ a step backwards. _“Not you.”_

 _“I_ was invited.” Potter near-shouted. “By your mother.”

The shout in Draco died. He glared down at Potter. “Explain.”

Potter was breathing hard, looking up at him. “Your mother invited me. In person. She knew who I was.” Potter glared at him. “Said you spoke about me all the time.”

Draco scowled. _“Complained_ about you. Don’t flatter yourself.”

Potter clenched his jaw. _3… 2… 1… there it is—_ the muscle in his jaw twitched, as Draco had foreseen it would. “She came to Remus and Sirius’s flat a few days ago. We… had a conversation. She invited me. She knew who I was. I thought maybe—she told you. I,” Potter frowned, stepping backwards. “I’m sorry, I should have…” Then, Potter began glaring at him. “You never _listen._ You’re always quick to assume the worst of me, Malfoy.” Potter stepped forward again, menacingly.

Oh, so they were doing this, were they?

“Evidence based practice, Potter. Ever heard of it?” Draco asked, refusing to move, refusing to relent. Why did they always end up so _close_ when they fought like this? This wasn’t normal.

“Based on _what_ evidence?” Potter was the one snarling now. It shouldn’t have sent that shiver up Draco’s spine. “You’re deluding yourself. You don’t know _shit_ about me—”

Draco looked at him in incredulous fury. “I don’t know _shit_ about you? I know more about you than your little posse of fans.”

“Stop changing the subject.” Potter twisted his hand in the front of Draco’s sweater.

“You’re so _grabby.”_ Draco scowled, all the while thinking _stop touching me, stop touching me, you know I’m gay, now._

 _“Stop_ changing the subject.” Potter moved closer. That shouldn’t have been hot. Alas. “You’ve got _no_ reason, _at all,_ to think the worst of me. I’ve never done _anything—”_

“I beg,” Draco interrupted, “to fucking differ, _Potter._ I’ve got a scar or two—”

“You’ve got no _scars—”_

“Don’t tell me what I have or don’t have—”

“You’ve got _no scars, Malfoy—”_

“I’ve got _millions of scars, fuck you!—”_

 _“Strip.”_ Potter commanded, furiously. And wow, Draco hated himself. Straight to the groin.

He pushed Potter backwards and roared, “I’m _gay, Potter!”_

 _“No, shit!”_ Potter roared back.

“You don’t think,” Draco moved towards him, as menacingly as he could, “that you should be _careful_ about telling a gay guy to _strip_ in his own bedroom?”

Potter blinked. It took a good second or two, but when the realisation hit him, he flushed like a virgin.

Draco snarled at him, “Why do you have a brain if you _never use it?”_

“I—just—you don’t—I didn’t, uh—no, you—”

“Take your time.” Draco snapped.

“Stop being rude!” Potter snapped back.

“I’ll be as rude as I want, Potter.”

“You’re an arsehole.” Potter grit out. “You’re an _arsehole.”_

“You _just_ realised?” Draco mocked. “You’re slower than I gave you credit for.”

“You’re only an arsehole to me!” Potter shouted.

“Fuck you, Potter, I’m an arsehole to everyone I don’t like.” Draco sneered, “You’re not special.”

A complicated array of emotions flit across Potter’s face, too quickly to interpret.

“You’ve got no reason to not like me!” Potter roared in Draco’s face.

“I’ve got plenty of reason not to like you!” Draco shouted back. He then stepped backwards and stopped shouting. “Stop shouting in my face— _fuck,_ my ears—we’re civilised people.”

“Like what?” Potter demanded.

“Huh?”

“You said you’ve got plenty of reason to not like me.” Potter repeated, impatiently. “Like _what.”_

Draco stared at him incredulously. _Fine then, Potter._ “One, you’re embarrassingly arrogant. Two, you think you’re the shit, when you’re really not—”

“One and two are the same thing.”

“Three,” Draco continued, undeterred, “You’re inconsiderate and reckless. That was four, by the way.” Draco sneered at him. “You’re reckless.”

“How does that affect you.” Potter demanded.

“You just demanded that I strip in front of you.” Draco rebutted.

“You said you had scars!”

“I _do_ have scars, you inconsiderate _fuck.”_

“No, you don’t!”

“Five,” Draco grit out. “You never _listen.”_

“You don’t have _scars, Malfoy.”_

“Six. You’re stubborn.”

“You’re too vain to have scars.” Potter ran his hands through his hair in frustration. “You’d spend millions of pounds on creams and—and whatever—before you let yourself get a scar,”

“Some scars,” Draco retorted, imperiously, “can’t be healed with creams.”

Potter stared at him, before his lip began to twitch, “You sound like a twelve year old girl—”

 _“Anyway._ Seven. You think you’re always right.”

“That’s not true.” Potter argued.

“Eight, you argue just for the heck of it.”

“I don’t!”

“Uh huh,” said Draco, deadpan.

“I _don’t—_ wait, wait, okay, I see where you’re coming from—”

“Nine, you stand too close to me when you’re angry.”

“Wha—” Potter realised their proximity and took a few steps backwards. “Wait, that doesn’t count, it only happened once—”

“It happens _every time you’re angry.”_ Draco said. “Every time. Ten, you stare at me too much.”

Potter flushed so hard Draco feared for a moment that he would faint from the rush of blood. “I—don’t.” 

“You do.” Draco said. “All the time.”

Potter took another step backwards.

“Eleven,” this game felt dangerous, “You stalk me when you’re bored.”

“I do _not!”_ Potter cried, indignant.

Draco raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “Twelve, you’re a liar.”

“I am _not!”_

“Thirteen,” that expression Potter had on—all that righteous fury—why the fuck was it so precious? “You refuse to admit to your mistakes.” 

“Only when I’m being unfairly accused.” grit Potter, still flushing all the way to his neck, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

 _Fourteen,_ thought Draco, _you’re fit._

“Fourteen,” said Draco, “You’re sanctimonious.”

“Wha—huh? What does that mean?”

“It means you think you’re morally superior to everyone around you.”

“I do _not.”_ Potter scowled, crossing his arms “I do not think I’m better than everyone around me.”

“Great, thanks—fifteen. You think you’re better than everyone around you.”

“Hey!” Potter whined. “That’s unfair.”

“Life is unfair, princess.” Draco grinned. “Sixteen. You complain too much.”

“Only—only when things are… unfair. Hey, wait, you’re setting me up for this—”

 _Seventeen,_ thought Draco, _I can’t stop thinking you’re adorable._

“Seventeen,” said Draco, “You’re an idiot.”

“You can’t hate someone for being an idiot.” Potter spluttered.

“Uh, yes, you can?” Draco stared at him. “I do it all the time.”

“That’s horrible, Malfoy—”

“Eighteen,” said Draco, rolling his eyes. “You love passing moral judgement on everyone else.”

“That’s not what I’m doing—I,” Potter sighed. “I’m not trying to—”

“Nineteen. You make people feel like shit.”

“Malfoy.” said Potter, quietly.

“Twenty. That voice.” Draco snarled. “Don’t.”

“Malfoy.” Potter repeated, even quieter.

“Twenty-one.” Draco turned to him. _You’re too good._ “You don’t realise the way you hurt people.”

Potter stared at him in silence. Somehow they had ended up all close, again.

“Twenty-two,” Draco said, unable to stop, “You can’t stand not being liked.”

“That’s not true.” Potter muttered, in protest.

“Isn’t it, Potter?” Draco asked him.

“It’s not true for everyone,” Potter flushed.

_Twenty-three, I think I’ve always been a little bit in love with you._

“Twenty-three,” said Draco, closing his eyes, “You’re an idiot.”

“Wait, you said that already—”

“Twenty-four,” Draco paused for a second. “You’re an idiot.”

“Hey,” Potter laughed.

“Twenty-five,” Draco opened his eyes and let himself have this moment, just for a while. “I think you might be a little bit of a masochist.”

“Uh, I—huh….” Potter frowned in thought.

“Twenty-six.” Draco smiled, “You _are_ a masochist.”

“I’d say that’s unfair but I’m scared of you now.” Potter laughed.

“Twenty-seven,” Draco smirked, provocatively, “You’re a coward.”

“I am not,” Potter stepped forward. “A coward.”

“Twenty-eight.” Draco continued, “You have this weird thing about being a coward.”

“I’m not a coward,” Potter took another step forward. “That’s—”

 _“Unfair,”_ Draco finished, in falsetto. “Twenty-nine. That weird thing you do with your mouth when you’re thinking.”

“Wait, what?” Potter frowned, still moving closer, “What weird thing?”

Draco dramatically bit his lip and made an intense brooding face.

“Wha—hey!” Potter argued, laughing despite himself. “I don’t—Jesus, _do_ I do that?”

“Uh, yeah.” Draco answered. “Thirty. You’re too close to me, again.”

Potter stared at Draco. “One. You’re scared of my proximity.”

Draco stepped backwards. “Thirty-one. You never follow the bloody _rules._ This is _my_ game, Potter, not yours.”

“Two,” Potter continued. “You change the subject when you get uncomfortable.”

“Thirty-two. You never let me get away with it.”

“Three.” Potter stepped closer. “You pretend to hate me.”

 _Stay calm, Draco._ “Thirty-three. You’re _embarrassingly_ optimistic.”

“Four.” Potter bit his lip. “You hide your true emotions.”

“Thirty-four. You are weirdly intense!” Draco forced a laugh.

“Five.” Potter smiled. “You use humour as a self-defence mechanism.”

“Newsflash Potter, so does literally everyone else!” Draco stepped backwards, again. “Thirty-five. You keep forgetting I’m _gay._ Stop getting so close to me.”

“Six.” Potter moved a step _forward,_ the bastard, “You don’t understand _anything.”_

A shiver went down Draco’s spine. “What are you doing.”

“Seven,” Potter paused. “You don’t—talk to me as much as you used to.”

“What?” Draco asked, horrified. What was happening. “Potter, what is happening.”

“Eight.” Potter had successfully backed Draco against a wall. “Your smirk. _God,_ it drives me mad.”

“Uh—”

“Nine.” Jesus, Draco really hoped he wouldn’t get an erection. “You hide how good you are.”

“What?” Draco frowned. “I—what?”

“Why do you do it, Malfoy?” Potter asked, softly.

“What?” Draco repeated, blankly, not understanding anything that was coming out of Potter’s mouth.

“Ten,” Potter smiled, the _fucker,_ “You’re an idiot.”

“I am _not.”_ Draco hissed.

Potter laughed. “You’re predictable. That’s eleven.”

“What number was I on.” Draco narrowed his eyes. “What number was I on. Whatever. Number one hundred. _You_ are predictable, Harry Potter.”

“Less predictable than you,”

“Please, Potter, did you know I was gay?”

Potter grinned. “You did keep telling me my arse was fit.”

Draco had never hated himself more. “Number one hundred and one. You never let me live down my worst memories.”

“Wouldn’t be much of an arch-nemesis if I did, would I?”

“Did you know,” Draco said, faintly, “That having an arch-nemesis at the childhood and adolescent age isn’t actually… healthy.”

“I don’t imagine so, no,” Potter smiled.

_Number one-hundred-and-kill-me-now—your smile._

“What are you doing.” Draco whispered, staring into the green of Potter’s eyes—the dark, hazel ring which surrounded those emerald irises.

“Trying to figure out,” Potter whispered back, “why the fuck you hate me so much.”

Draco’s heart was going to stop working any minute now. _Any minute now_ it would fail from excessive overuse. Any second, now.

“Number—one hundred,” Potter smiled at his blatant thievery, “You hate me.”

“You realise,” Draco heard himself say, “that this is meant to be the reasons why _you_ hate _me,_ right?”

“Mmmhmm,” Potter hummed.

“Does it piss you off that I’m taller than you?” Draco asked him, biting back a smile.

“You could say that,” Potter murmured.

“Number one million.” Draco grinned, whispering. “You’re fucking weird.”

Potter laughed, softly.

Something very weird was happening right now. Draco didn’t really—understand anything at all. Was Potter… hitting on him? Is that—what? What what what? Or was Draco just being embarrassingly optimistic?

“You’re being gay, Potter.” Draco hissed.

 _“You’re_ the one who’s always insisting that I am.” Potter argued.

Draco pushed him away. “For _Diggory.”_

Potter rolled his eyes. “You know that I dated his ex-girlfriend, right?”

Draco scowled. _Yes, Potter, I do know. I was in a fucking terrible mood the entire time._

Potter ran another hand through his hair, “Listen, I—I just—I think we got off on the wrong foot all those years ago.”

Draco rolled his eyes so hard he got a mini headache.

“Listen, Malfoy.” Potter pleaded. “I—want to be friends with you.”

And Draco’s heart broke a teensy-weensy bit, but whatever. Life goes on.

“It drives me mad that you’re only ever this pissy with me.” Potter continued, flushing. “It—I don’t like it. Just—please.”

Draco said, “You’re standing too close to me.”

“Oh, right—sorry,” Potter scrambled backwards. “Sorry.” he bit his lip and stared at Draco.

Draco took a deep breath. His heart was maybe, _slightly_ more than a teensy-weensy bit broken, but whatever. It be that way. Que será será. _Compartmentalise, Draco. Not a single tremor in front of the enemy, ever._

Draco looked at Potter, ignoring the weird _ache_ in his heart. _Leave me_ alone, he wanted to shriek. It wasn’t _fair._ It wasn’t fair that Draco had spent, what, almost half of his entire life in love with a bloody idiot who would never feel the same. _Just leave me alone, please._

Potter was making that weird thinking face. The brooding-lip-biting-shebang. _Fuck me._

It was Potter this time who was holding his hand out to Draco. Potter, who was asking for friendship—and _just_ friendship. Just friendship. Draco felt the urge to cry. He held it back. _Come on, you pathetic worm. Compartmentalise. You’re stronger than this._

Potter was asking for his friendship. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on Draco.

“You realise the irony of this situation, yes?” Draco asked, pretending that _everything_ was fine. Because everything _was_ fine. Compartmentalisation was a beautiful thing.

“Huh?” Potter frowned.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Never-mind.”

“Was—is that a yes, then?” Potter asked, shyly.

Draco looked at his flush, his quivering eye-contact, and despite all his innate cruelty, he didn’t have it in him to break Potter. Some pseudo-villain he was.

“God, you’re pathetic.” said Draco.

“Is that a no?” Potter asked, crestfallen.

Draco couldn’t take that expression on Potter’s face. _What the fuck have you done to me?_

“It’s a yes, fool.” Draco hissed.

Potter beamed. _God, kill me now,_ Draco asked for what must have been the twentieth time. And there was no God, because Draco kept existing, and Potter kept beaming, and Draco kept being in love in Potter and hating his life.

A shuffling sound outside his door caught Draco’s attention. Draco sighed a sigh that was half a snarl.

“Come in, _S_ _talkers.”_ Draco called, loudly.

Pansy, Blaise and Luna walked in unrepentantly.

“That was delicious.” Pansy said. “Truly. Truly, delicious. You have made me a very happy girl, Harry Potter.”

“Wha—you’re welcome?”

“Beautiful.” Blaise proclaimed, applauding absolutely nothing. “Gorgeous. Dracon, you—this is the best moment of my life,” Blaise hugged Draco. “I love you, Dracon, you know that, right?”

“Naturally.” Draco sighed.

Blaise kissed his cheek. “I love you.”

“I have positive sentiments for you, too, Blaise.”

Blaise kissed his cheek again, “I know you love me, too.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, but okay.”

“We are in lo—woah, there,” Blaise was pulled off Draco.

“He’s gay.” Potter said, holding Blaise back by his shirt. “You should respect that.”

“Calm down, Potter.” Pansy rolled her eyes. “We’ve seen every single inch of Draco. It’s never happening.”

“You’re both _blessed_ to have seen every single inch of me.” Draco sniffed.

“They were some very delectable inches,” Blaise agreed. “Kindly unhand me, Potter. Dracon is like the grand-uncle I never had.”

“Blaise,” said Draco, in wonder, “You’re older than me.”

“And?” Blaise asked, blinking.

“They’re both a bit mad,” said Pansy, to Potter.

“Wait,” said Potter, “You’ve seen him completely—” and he trailed off, whispering.

Draco eyed him for a miserable, miserable second before looking away.

“Draco,” whispered Looney.

“Looney,” Draco whispered back. “Why are we whispering.”

Looney shrugged. “Are you okay?”

Draco smiled, just brokenhearted enough to still be able to produce the action, “Is it the Wrackspurts?”

Looney hesitated and then reached forward to hug Draco. Draco pulled her to him as hard as he could.

“You’re the best, you know that?” he whispered to her.

“You too,” she whispered back, hugging him back just as hard. “You’re the _best,_ okay?”

Draco closed his eyes as tightly as he could, against the embarrassing rush of tears. Luna rotated them, so that she was facing the others, and he was facing the wall.

“Okay?” she said softly.

Draco would have whispered an answer, but the lump in his throat was forbidding speech.

“I love you, Draco,” Luna whispered, “You don’t have to say it back, I know you love me, too.”

Draco nodded, again. The tears came even stronger than before. He felt Looney’s head move in his arms to face his expression.

“I love you, okay?” she whispered.

He swallowed once, twice. He inhaled deeply, exhaled. Swallowed again. _Compartmentalise._ He couldn’t cry in front of Looney. He loved her too much, he couldn’t do that to her.

“Okay,” he whispered back, opening his eyes, forcing a smile. “I love you too, Looney.”

She smiled back, “Theo loves you too,”

That surprised a laugh out of him. “Theo likes my face very much.”

She giggled, “It’s a nice face.”

“It’s a bloody brilliant face.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, but okay.”

Draco laughed. “I’ve corrupted you, Looney-toons.”

“Absolutely.” Looney agreed, her grey eyes large and wide, “What would Maximillian say?”

“He’d _kill_ me.” Draco answered, “God, he’s terrifying.”

“Who’s terrifying?” asked Potter.

Draco turned Luna and him back around.

“Maximillian.” answered Luna, who had turned around in Draco’s embrace to face Potter, Draco’s arms still hugging her from the back.

Potter opened his mouth. And then he shut it. “Okay.”

“You’ll get along just fine,” Pansy patted his arm. “You’ll be great.”

Looney squirmed in Draco’s arms. “What’s wrong?” Draco asked her.

Looney made a face at the floor. “I didn’t eat any dessert because I was too full…”

Draco burst out laughing. “Are you hungry now?” he asked her.

Looney looked up at him. Looney was one of Draco’s favourite people in all the world. Draco kissed her forehead.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” he smiled. “Down to the kitchens, we go.”

Luna grinned. 

“Where are you going?” Potter asked.

“Okay, right, first lesson of being friends with Draco Malfoy,” began Pansy. “Stop questioning things.”

“It’ll drive you mad,” agreed Blaise.

Draco ignored them. Looney and him went down to eat some illicit dessert in the kitchens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone has any idea what the fuck is happening, please do let me know. It would be much appreciated. Thank you and god bless.
> 
> [EDIT] ALSO:
> 
> To clear up a seeming inconsistency about Draco's age—Draco is seventeen years old, NOT eighteen. However, Draco has wanted to be eighteen for a very long time, and therefore (because Draco is Draco), he believes that he's BASICALLY eighteen anyway, and identifies ('age,' he believes, 'is a man-made construct.') himself as eighteen. If a random stranger were to ask him how old he was, he would answer 'eighteen.' He does, however, write his correct age on official documents. He also admits to his correct age in very specific scenarios (such as the argument between him and Sirius in this fic—in which he jokingly uses his age as an excuse for not having successfully seduced Remus yet). 
> 
> (I hope that makes sense, T.T)


	7. Jelly's my favourite, you know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just—  
> I tried to be on time. It's the thought that counts.  
> (T.T)
> 
> I'd also like to say thank you to everyone who's left a comment or a kudos (or even just an imaginary like). I think this is my most popular fic, it's actually crazy to me that people actually like the crap my brain comes up with. Anyway, thanks so much for supporting me!

“This is wrong.” Potter announced, looking absolutely horrified. 

_ thats sooooo funny!  _ Draco typed into the chat box.  _ ur relly funny, voldy ;) _

“This is wrong.” Potter repeated.

“Draco, you suck at this.” Pansy scowled. 

“I’m better than Potter.” Draco returned.  _ wut r u doing rn???  _ Draco typed in.

‘Voldy’ started to type, stopped typing, and then started to type again. Draco leant away from his laptop and smirked.

“The only reason this is working,” Pansy said, “Is because I’m a double-D.”

“This is so wrong.” Potter muttered, looking adorably scandalised.

“Are you really alright with us using your—um, your photo as the profile picture?” Granger asked Pansy, her brow wrinkled in concern.

“You’re so cute, Grangey,” Blaise cooed.

_ “Grangey?”  _ Weasel scowled.

“Don’t waste your concern, Granger, Pansy has no shame.” Draco intoned, watching the ‘ _ typing…’  _ on the screen flicker on and off.

“This—Parkinson.” Potter stood up, righteousness dripping out of his arse. “This is—” 

_ “—wrong.”  _ Draco finished, in falsetto. “Sit down, Potter.”

Potter sat back down. “I don’t understand why—”

“Leave the understanding to the people with the mental capacity to understand.” Draco drawled. “Just sit there and be golden, Golden-boy.”

“Has he  _ still  _ not responded?” Pansy asked, peering at the screen and the flickering  _ ‘typing…’ _ “Draco, you  _ suck.” _

“He’s nervous.” Draco argued. “It’s going well.”

“Maybe we should have used another photo of Pansy,” Looney offered.

“The photo’s too good to be true.” Weasel agreed. At Granger’s glare, he added, quickly, “It looks too much like a catfish.”

“If you use your singular brain cell, Weasel, you’ll realise,” Draco explained, patiently, “that that’s rather the point.”

“If the catfishing’s too obvious, it’s not going to work,” Weasel shot back. “This is why you’ve never won in a chess game against me.”

“Low blow, Weasel.”

“I’m sorry for being too hot,” Pansy grinned, reclining back on Draco’s bed.

Draco looked at her scathingly. Pansy blew him a kiss.

“It’s not your fault, Pansy,” Looney said, “We should have chosen a less flattering photo.”

“Stop overthinking it.” Draco rolled his eyes. “It’s working.”

Potter started, indignantly, “This is—”

“Oh my  _ god,”  _ Draco snapped. “Shut  _ up,  _ Potter.”

Potter scowled at the floor.

Draco scowled at Potter scowling at the floor.  _ What a child.  _

And then, unable to help his weak, weak heart, he sighed, loudly, “Have you done the Chemistry homework?”

“No.” Potter told his feet.

“Do it now.” Draco said. “Leave the catfishing to the depraved ones in the group.”

Potter muttered indecipherably and got his homework out of his bag. And then, like the good boy he was, Potter began to do his homework in the corner. Damn it, why was he so— _ ugh. Focus, Draco.  _ Draco forced his eyes back to the screen.

“Still hasn’t replied?” Blaise asked, lying down next to Pansy.

“No.” Draco admitted, begrudgingly. “But it’s working, I swear, he’s still typing.”

“We should have used a photo of me—” Looney started.

““No.”” said Draco and Pansy at the same time. Draco narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Pansy.

“I’ve got the biggest boobs in the group.” Pansy said. “It had to be me.”

“You’re a martyr now, Pans,” Blaise grinned. “It’s going to be so boring up in heaven.”

“Not if Luna’s there with me,”

“Can you  _ not?”  _ Draco gave her a withering look, shoving her feet away from him. 

“Maybe,” Granger bit her lip. “Maybe we should have—”

“We’re not fighting over which one of you should have been objectified.” Draco commanded.

“All I’m saying,” said Blaise, “is that if you’d used  _ me _ , instead of Pansy—”

“How are you all so self-obsessed?” Weasel interrupted, disgusted, and yet unable to hide his awe.

“It’s second-nature to be a narcissist if you’re worth obsessing over,”

“Blaise, stop seducing Granger’s boyfriend.” Draco frowned at the laptop screen. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the flaw in Blaise’s reasoning continue to pout handsomely in the corner. 

“What are we going to do if this doesn’t work.” Potter demanded, exploding with repressed morality.

“We’ll get Draco to wear pantyhose and take a photo of his legs,” Pansy answered, “Duh.”

_ Reply, Moldy-fuck, come  _ on, Draco dragged the cursor over the  _ ‘typing…’ _

“What, Potter?” Pansy asked, sweetly. “Don’t like the sound of that?”

Draco looked up from his screen just in time to catch Potter’s impressive glower. He felt himself bristle. “I’ll have you know, Potter, that there are  _ literal  _ fandoms dedicated to my legs.”

“As well as subpar pornos,” Blaise added.

Reaching behind him, in one fluid movement, Draco took hold of a pillow and threw it at Blaise’s face as hard as he could. He caught a glimpse of Luna’s wide-eyed stare. “Ignore the wanton hoozy, Looney.”

“Are you talking about ‘Bite me, Tacky,’ or ‘Villainous Bath-time’?” came Luna’s heart-stopping response.

Draco felt his soul leave his body. He looked in horror at his beautiful, and once upon a time, innocent, baby cousin, cursing the world and its corrupting ways. He then turned to Blaise and snarled, “This is  _ your  _ fault.”

“Lu— _ na.”  _ hushed Blaise, gleefully dodging Draco’s second torpedo pillow throw.

(“There was a fashion-show in Tokyo dedicated to Draco’s legs,” Pansy said, somewhere in the irrelevant background.)

“This happened because you  _ wouldn’t shut up about the fake blonde who played me in the porno,”  _ Draco hissed, leaping across his bed to catch a rapidly fleeing Blaise.

“Not in front of an  _ audience,  _ Dracon,” Blaise teased, batting his eyelashes.

“I’m going to hurt you, Blaise.”

“Promise?” Blaise returned, eagerly.

“Exhibitionists.” Pansy muttered.

“Has Voldemort replied yet!” Potter yelled, making his way over.

“This was a bad idea,” Granger muttered.

“This was a fantastic idea,” Draco returned, feeling for some reason that his personal pride was tied to a successful catfishing. “Stay in your corner, Potter.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” Potter snapped.

Draco gave him a look. He hadn’t minded all that much before, what the fuck was wrong with him now?

Granger groaned and put her head in her hands.

“This was a  _ fantastic  _ idea.” Pansy proclaimed.

Draco turned to her suspiciously. “Why are you being so supportive.”

“Because I am a supportive person, darling,”

Draco smiled and gave her the finger.

“People shouldn’t use other people without their permission.” Potter said, tightly.

Draco turned to him, biting back the withering response on his tongue— _control, Draco, control—_ “Pansy practically begged to be used,”

“The photo’s too obvious.” Weasel groaned. “It’s not going to work.”

Potter glared at the pillow on the floor next to his foot and threw it viciously at Draco’s bed. “This shouldn’t happen.”

Draco lost his temper. “Stop being so annoying, Potter!”

“Sto— _ you,  _ stop!” Potter shouted back.

_ “Wow.”  _ Draco widened his eyes. “ _ Great  _ comeback. I am  _ destroyed.” _

“Why did we agree to this, Ron,” Granger whispered.

“Trust in the double-D’s, all of you,” called Pansy, playing on her phone.

“Stop being sarcastic!” Potter roared, anger collecting in the air around him like he was the centre of some metaphysical vortex. 

“Only because you’re asking so nicely,” Draco replied, so very sweetly—like frosting, or honey, or (if he stopped being sarcastic) ethylene glycol.

Potter snarled and ran his hands through his hair. “You—you—”

“Luna, have you seen ‘Naughty Tacky,’?” Draco heard Blaise say.

All Draco did was look at Blaise. He was gratified to observe him flinch in response.

“Everybody shut up about the porn!” shouted the unnecessarily loud vortex of anger.

Draco clapped his hands. “Hear ye, hear ye, King Potter hath passeth a decree,”

_ “Mal—” _

“Oh,” said Luna, “Voldy replied.”

Everybody turned to Luna.

In two strides Draco was at his laptop screen. He began grinning irrepressibly when he read the words,  _ talking to a beutiful girl ;) _

“I  _ told  _ you fools it would work.”

“He’s never going to shut up about this now,” he heard Pansy tell Granger. “You brought this on yourselves.”

* * *

The way Draco dealt with his unfortunate feelings for Potter was through Theo. That made him a horrible person, of course, but it made him a horrible person who was aware that he was a horrible person. Draco was many, many things, but he wasn’t a hypocrite. Well, okay, he  _ was _ a hypocrite, but not in this very specific scenario.

Theo, a worthy companion, was well aware of how horrible a person Draco was.

“Remind me, again, why I tolerate you?” Theo asked.

Draco smirked at Theo. “I don’t think I need to.”

Theo sighed and took a cigarette pack and lighter out of his pocket. “Overconfidence isn’t sexy.”

“You know what  _ really  _ isn’t sexy?” Draco asked him, leaning his head back on the brick wall. “Willingly destroying your lungs.”

(Hi there, Evidence of Maximilian’s Never-Ending Sermons.)

Theo glanced at him from below his dark blond lashes. “You say that,”

“I  _ do  _ say that.” Draco agreed. “All the time. Because it’s true.”

“You say that,” Theo repeated, starting to smirk, putting his lit cigarette between his lips. “But then you look at me like that.”

“Like what,” Draco asked, trying desperately not to focus on the smoke leaving that perfect, parted cupid’s bow—those lips that were turning into a slow smirk right in front of Draco’s eyes. 

Okay, Draco admitted: Horny was Draco and Draco was Horny.

“Like you want my dick in your mouth.” Theo said, still smirking, his tie loosened.

Draco eyed him, all blond hair, blue eyes and elegant insouciance.  _ Hold onto that bravado, Theodore. _

Moving in front of Theo, Draco placed his arms on either side of his body and effectively trapped him against the wall before moving closer. Theo’s pupils dilated, his eyes flickered to Draco’s mouth. “Looks to me like you’re the one desperate for my mouth on your dick,”

Theo let out a slow exhale of smoke. “Not at school.”

Draco wrinkled his nose at the second-hand smoke, moving away from repulsion rather than complaisance.

“You don’t like the smell, do you?” Theo smiled with the next exhale.

“I don’t like the fact that it’s killing you, either.”

Snaking an arm around Draco’s waist and pulling him closer, “Stop pretending that you care,”

Draco felt a throb of guilt. He moved away enough to see Theo’s face. “I do care.”

Theo’s scoff was half a laugh, but it seemed to Draco, somehow, that there was discomfort hiding behind all that bravado. The sight was so familiar it hurt to look at.  _ ‘I couldn’t give less of a fuck what someone at the calibre of Potter thinks of me.’ _

“Theo, I do care.” Draco said, sincerely. He was aware that the words could never sound sincere out of his mouth. He felt himself frowning at the thought. “Whatever my countless flaws and—insufficiencies, I do care.”

Theo took another drag of his cigarette, a breath too long to be natural. “Doesn’t matter to me.”

Draco’s conscience reared its severely mal-nutritioned head. He bit back another frown. 

He wasn’t going to apologise—that just wasn’t who he was. And… if Draco was in Theo’s position, he’d rather die before feel like he was being pitied. And so, pretending he believed Theo’s lie, Draco slid a hand up his neck and placed an open mouthed kiss on the other side. Above him, Theo let out a shuddering exhale.

Draco moved upwards with his kisses, putting extra care on the spot just below Theo’s ear, moving his body until there was no space between them, biting Theo’s earlobe and earning a repressed moan.

“I do care, Theodore.” Draco said softly into Theo’s ear.

_ “Don’t.”  _ came the returning hiss, despite his full-body shiver.

Draco bit his ear, again.

Theo pulled Draco’s face to his own and kissed him. Draco licked his bottom lip slowly. The smell of smoke, Draco hated. The taste of tobacco, on the other hand, had been made appetising by association.

Almost to himself, Theo asked, “Why do I let you do this,”

Draco kissed him harder, swallowing his words, grinding him against the wall. Theo groaned and bit his lip as Draco moved his hands up and down his sides, pushing harder and harder against him, his movements growing more frantic, his mind fogging enough that it almost seemed blond hair turned black, and blue eyes turned green.

“Do you think,” Theo asked, as if through a haze, with Draco kissing his collarbone, “you could ever—feel anything for me,” 

It took a while for the words to register, but when they did Draco froze. He couldn’t quite keep the expression off his face.

“Fuck.” Theo cussed, more panicked than Draco had ever seen him. “Ignore that—”

The sound of the back-door opening made them both jump and tear away from each other.

“Malfoy?—” and  _ of course  _ it was Harry fucking Potter.

Theo hissed and turned away to button up his shirt. Draco, more appropriately clothed, stepped in front of him as cover. The crisis had been averted with a larger crisis, as was typical of Draco’s life.

_ Why do things like this happen to me,  _ thought Draco, sadly.  _ Karma, why must you be such a sanctimonious bitch? _

“Malfoy?” Potter frowned at him, glancing behind him at Theo, (now really wasn’t the time, but Draco couldn’t help noticing that Potter’s hair was wet. He hated himself for the sudden premonition he got about his dreams that night: annoying boys, water, and much nakedness.) “Parkinson told me…” Potter trailed off. “What were you doing.”

Feeling Theo stiffen behind him, Draco just barely bit back a wince. If Draco was in the closet, Theo was in Narnia. 

“Smoking.” Draco lied, moving to cover Theo more completely.

Potter glanced at Draco’s lips.  _ Fuck,  _ Draco thought,  _ They must be swollen.  _ He pursed them.

“Smoking.” repeated Potter, coldly.

“Spare me.” Draco attempted, in half sincerity.

“You were smoking.” Potter said, in growing anger.

“Go inside, I’ll take care of this,” Draco told Theo. Theo gave him a quick grateful glance before running indoors.

Draco looked at Potter, so incredibly tired in so many different ways. He could barely believe the words that were going to leave his mouth.

“Do me a favour, Potter, and pretend that you didn’t see anything.”

“What exactly are you asking me to forget.” Potter asked, clenching his jaw. “You were  _ smoking.” _

Draco rubbed the back of his neck and looked away. How the fuck was he meant to answer? (God, Potter’s wet hair  _ really  _ wasn’t helping.) “Let me be, I wasn’t the one smoking.”

Potter scowled. “So what exactly am I meant to be _forgetting,_ Malfoy.”

Of course Potter wasn’t going to let this go. When had he ever made anything easy for Draco? Draco looked at the grey sky in irritation and exhaled, loudly. “Do I really need to spell it out for you?”

“Yes.”

Draco looked back at Potter, at the way his glasses rested on his nose. At the way his brows were pulled low and his lips were half-pouted, and how he was everything Draco could never have. The dull ache in his chest reminded him of its existence. He hated so much what Potter did to him, what Potter had always done to him. When he felt himself sneering, he forced himself to clear his expression.

Draco thought of Theo, then. It was so stupid to have done something in school. They’d both been desperate—Draco for escape, Theo for… whatever he’d deluded himself into feeling.  _ ‘Do you think,’  _ he had asked,  _ ‘you could ever—feel anything for me.’  _ After all the ways Draco had hurt him, he couldn’t hurt him like this, as well. He conceded that it was time to be honourable for once. He owed Theo Potter’s silence. 

“We were kissing.” Draco told Potter, catching him off-guard with uncharacteristic candidness. “I’d really appreciate it,” oh, how the words burned as they left his mouth, “if you didn’t tell anyone.”

Potter spluttered indecipherably for a while. Eventually, “He  _ smokes.”  _

“A crime, I know.”

Potter gave Draco’s sarcasm a look of pure disgust. Not that Draco had been expecting a laugh or anything. Not that Potter and Draco were friends, or anything. Not that  _ Potter  _ had been the one to bloody beg  for Draco’s friendship, or any-fucking-thing. Draco noticed himself growing a tad too irritated. He forced a deep breath.  _ Control, you idiot. _

“Leave him alone.” he sighed, after a moment.

When Potter didn’t answer, a spark of irritation led Draco to clench his jaw and repeat, “Leave him  _ alone.” _

“You—I’m not going to  _ hurt  _ him.” Potter retorted, fiercely.

_ Make your mother proud, Draco, calm the fuck down.  _ Draco forced another few breaths and then looked at Potter, carefully. How the fuck was he meant to get him to understand the severity of the situation? “Don’t tell anyone, please.”

“I—” Potter blinked. The ‘please’ must have thrown him. “I won’t.”

“Not even Granger, or Weasel.”

“Ashamed of your boyfriend?” Potter sneered, having recovered all too fast from the ‘please’.

Draco stiffened. How easily they melted back into their usual roles. 

Animosity shouldn’t have looked so foreign on Potter’s face. Potter had been sneering at Draco for seven years. A few weeks of ceasefire shouldn’t have broken that cornerstone. Draco asked him, coldly, “Will you or will you not forget this ever happened?”

Potter glared back at him, livid for being forced into dishonesty. And yet, even through his anger and his perpetual, instinctive hatred for Draco (in spite of all that rubbish he’d insisted about wanting to be friends) he answered, as Draco had always known he would, “I will.” 

_ You never change,  _ came the bittersweet thought. Draco stared at him for a single, decadent moment. And then he nodded. The ceasefire continued. 

“Why were you looking for me?”

Potter paused. “The police contacted me.”

Draco moved away from the wall, noticing in the process that Theo’s cigarette was still lit. It must have fallen sometime during the kissing. He snubbed it with his shoe and asked, “Golden-boy?”

Potter nodded, tightly. “They asked if I want to come in to—watch the interrogations.”

Draco frowned. It had been almost three weeks since Moldy-fucker’s pathetic followers had been apprehended. “They haven’t been interrogated?”

“They have.”

Draco sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Explain yourself Potter, don’t make this more exhausting for me.”

“Excuse me for being exhausting.”

And then, in a move that really shouldn’t have surprised Draco as much as it did, Potter turned on the spot and walked back inside, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

“What did you say to Harry?” Granger asked him during English, later that week.

“Nothing.” Draco insisted. “Why is he being so pissy?”

Granger made a complicated expression for a few moments before sighing. “He...‘s under a lot of stress.”

Draco scowled. “Under a lot of stress, my arse. He’s acting like I killed his family.”

Granger looked at him distrustingly. Which, okay, fair. “You must have said something.”

Draco’s scowl deepened. “I say things to him all the time, he’s never behaved like this before.”

“Touché.” Granger winced. “I’ll speak to him.”

Draco grit his teeth and focused back on the poem he’d been annotating.

_ And neither the angels in Heaven above _

_ Nor the demons down under the sea _

_ Can ever dissever my soul from the soul _

_ Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; _

Draco thought blandly that everything was horrible and that everyone (especially people whose names began with the letter P) needed to calm the fuck down. 

* * *

It was two days before Draco’s patience ran out.

He caught Potter by the elbow and dragged him to the disabilities bathroom after Chemistry finished. Ignoring Potter’s protests, Draco shut them both inside and locked the door.

“What is wrong with you.” Draco demanded.

“Nothing.”

“Stop lying.”

“Says the person who  _ forced me to lie.” _

“So, that’s it?” Draco asked, eyeing Potter. “You’ve been acting like this because I asked you to lie for me?”

Potter clenched his jaw and looked at the floor with such anger that Draco half expected it to burst into flames.

“We can’t have a conversation if you don’t  _ talk, Potter.” _

Potter shrugged, ineffectively attempting nonchalance like a loser. Emphasis on loser.

“Potter.” No response. “Oi.” No response. _“Potter.”_ A furious glance. The thread of Draco’s patience snapped. _“Why are you so angry?”_ he demanded.

“I don’t know!” Potter shouted at the floor.

“Are you,” Draco inhaled,  _ “crazy?” _

“Says the bloke who locked me in a bathroom with him!”

“Says the coward who’s been  _ avoiding  _ me.”

“I’m not a coward!” Potter flushed.

“Coward.” Draco hissed. “Coward, coward, coward.”

Despite his blush, Potter glared. “Name-calling won’t intimidate me.”

“Presumptuous of you to assume my observations were meant as anything other than sincere observations.” Draco returned, the week-long hurt and betrayal fuelling his rage.

Potter narrowed his eyes at him. “Duplicitous of you to say your words were mere observations when you went out of your way to  _ lock me in a bathroom with you.” _

Draco was stunned out of his anger for a second.  He stared at Potter. “That was quite possibly the most eloquent sentence that has ever left your mouth.”

Potter sniffed and glanced at Draco, a new bashfulness in his expression.  _ Oh god, Potter, don’t do that. _

Draco looked away, feeling his cheeks heat.

Potter cleared his throat.

Draco observed Potter glancing at him from the corner of his vision. He stopped observing Potter from the corner of his vision when he felt it was getting too much for his heart.

“You…” Potter started, before clearing his throat again. “Are you…” and he trailed off into silence. Draco watched him struggle for words.

“The eloquence was nice while it lasted.”

“Fuck off,” Potter returned, trying not to smile.

It was absurd that Draco had missed this. He hadn’t had it long enough to grow familiar with it, and yet still… still, the mere vision of Potter looking at him with detached fondness rather than anger calmed his fretting heart. It was like feeling at home in an apartment that he’d stepped in for the first time. It didn’t make any sense. Nothing about Potter ever made any sense.  _ What have you done to me? _ he was tempted to ask.

“Are you going to stop avoiding me now?” he asked instead, trying to be as non-accusatory as possible, and probably failing just because of who he was as a person.

“I wasn’t—avoiding you.” Potter muttered.

Draco rolled his eyes and didn’t deign to answer.

“Are you….” Potter started.

Draco looked at him in irritation when he didn’t bother to finish his sentence. “Am I what?”

“Nothing.”

“For fuck’s sake.” Draco scowled at his surly disposition “Fine.” he spat. “I’m sorry.”

Potter blinked at him. “What.”

“Are you deaf?” Draco repeated, furiously, “I’m sorry.”

Potter’s lips twitched. “That was the most aggressive apology I’ve ever gotten.”

Draco scowled at him until he stopped trying to hold back a laugh.  _ It kills me to say it, but, _ “I’m sorry that I made you lie to your best friends for Theo’s sake.”

Potter’s eyebrows shot up. Draco knew, then, that Potter was an idiot. It was an unfortunate reality that he had admitted to himself (and  _ only  _ to himself) that Potter being normal again was worth more than upholding his pride. As loath as he was to draw out his capitulation, he knew what needed to be done. He took in a deep breath in order to explain himself as best he could.

“It’s—difficult to be—gay, or different, in any way, really, in school. Theo isn’t… he comes from a conservative family.” Draco felt his voice soften with sympathy. “His parents would kill him. And he—the decision to come out is entirely his. Nothing should ever take that power away from him. He doesn’t deserve that.”

“Huh.”

Draco felt his face sour with the words,“I’m sorry that I made you lie to Granger and Weasel. It can’t have been easy. ” He paused to suppress a grimace. The words were like shards of glass making their way up his throat, “But it’s not just me. It’s Theo _.  _ I wouldn’t have made you lie if it was just me.” He bit back a wince at Potter’s disbelieving expression and continued, “I know it’s hard to believe, but I—look, you’ve been to my house. My mum accepts me. Pansy, Blaise and Luna accept me. Remus and Sirius accept me. I don’t really care about anyone else.” Draco wondered if any of this was getting through Potter’s skull. “Theo hasn’t told anyone.” Potter’s face was impassive. God, how the fuck was Draco going to appeal to him? “You shouldn’t have found out,” Maybe it was time to play the martyr card. “It was my fault, I jumped him. I—” Draco winced at how lame he was going to sound. “I was too horny to care about where we were.” He took another deep breath. “I’m sorry for making you lie but I need you to keep your promise.” When Potter didn’t say anything, Draco swallowed the bile which came with willingly lowering himself to this degree and added, “Please, Potter.”

“You must care about him a lot.”

_ Oh, thank god,  _ Draco looked up expecting forgiveness, only to see a violent rage on Potter’s face.

“I said sorry!” he snapped, his patience evaporating.

“I heard.” Potter snapped back. And in a step he pushed Draco out of the way and was gone.

_Fine then,_ thought Draco, with building anger in his stomach. He’d laid all his cards and still been judged inadequate. This was familiar, though. This anger. Draco was done with lowering himself. Fuck that.

_ Fine then, Potter. Two can play at that game. _

* * *

_ YOU ARE SO FUNNY VOLDY HAHAHAHAH,  _ Draco typed with an impassive face. He hit  _ send. _

Voldy sent back a heart emoji. Draco sneered at it.

“What was the point of this again?” asked Blaise, shoving peanuts into his mouth. “Not that I’m not having fun.” 

“Methinks Draco’s fallen in  _ lurve.”  _ Pansy batted her eyelashes.

Scrolling over the old messages, Draco felt inclined to admit (but only to himself) that Blaise had a point. What  _ was  _ the point of this again? Draco glared at his laptop screen and the flickering  _ typing…  _

He felt, after a while, that someone was staring at him. Looking up, he noticed Luna eyeing him. He raised a questioning eyebrow.

“You haven’t been drinking your tea.” she said. The tea she was referring to was the ginger infused one that she had made for his ubiquitous Wrackspurt problem. 

It amused Draco the way that she accused him. “Innocent until proven guilty, Looney.”

Luna frowned at him.

“Great.” Pansy intoned. “You’ve upset Luna. You ruin everything.”

Any other time, Draco would have let loose a string of cutting repartees. At that moment, however, he simply couldn’t be bothered. He gave Pansy the finger and continued staring at the  _ typing…  _ on the screen.

“Wanker.” Pansy said, fondly.

“So I’ve been told.”

“Has Voldy replied?” Luna asked, bringing a thermos over to Draco.

Draco took a begrudging sip of his anti-Wrackspurt syrup and decided that not replying was a better choice than admitting that his mind was a tad too pre-occupied to be brilliant right now.

And then he took another sip of his anti-Wrackspurt syrup and decided that his mind was always brilliant regardless of how pre-occupied it was, and that Potter could go eat his own shit.

He scrolled through all his messages with Voldy and then announced, “He’s going to invite me to his next loser scheme.”

Blaise missed the peanut he was trying to catch with his mouth. He turned to Draco with lazy movements, “Rather optimistic of you,”

“He’s alluded to it before, I just pretended to not understand.”

“I’ll never understand the obsession you have for making things harder for yourself,” Pansy said.

“They’re called masochistic tendencies, Pans.” Blaise returned, “We’ve been over this.”

Draco smiled at them. _Let them think what they want._ The new Draco was a mature Draco.

“He did it on purpose,” Luna eyed him, “Didn’t you, Draco?”

Pansy and Blaise turned to Draco. The new Draco, however more mature, wasn’t above his braggart tendencies.

“Of course I did.” Draco drawled. When the curiosity on Pansy’s face turned, delightfully, into annoyance, he elucidated, “By pretending that I didn’t catch his insinuation, I made myself less threatening to him. I made myself out to be slow, and this led him to lower his guard. He’s been spending a shorter time typing.”

“What about the invitation that hasn’t arrived yet, my little conniving Dracon?” Blaise teased.

“He’s never outright invited me to anything before, he’s just shy.”

“Confidence killed the cat,” Pansy said.

_ “Curiosity  _ killed the cat, you moron.”

“Keep drinking your tea, Draco.” Luna said.

Draco drank his tea and drummed his fingers against his desk. He’d said all that bullshit out loud, but if he was honest… 

“You are so full of shit, Draco Malfoy.” Pansy announced. “You have no idea whether this is going to work.”

Draco hated how well she knew him. He scowled at her. “I work in probabilities not absolutes.”

“Oooh, I’m Draco Malfoy, I use big words to confuse the people around me into thinking I know what I’m talking about,”

Draco took a long sip of his anti-Wrackspurt syrup and said, “At least my middle name isn’t Prudence.”

“Please, darling.” Pansy gave him a bored look. “Leroy?”

_ “Le Roy,”  _ Luna said, tilting her head and making the beetles in her ears twinkle. “I think it’s rather fitting.”

_ “Thank  _ you, cousin.” Draco said, immensely gratified that  _ someone  _ in this room saw sense. And then he saw the way Pansy was looking at Luna and continued, “But never speak French again. It is forbidden.”

“Probability, huh,” Blaise walked over to stare at the laptop screen. Throwing another peanut to catch in his mouth, he grinned. “I’ll take that.” 

“This is going to work.” Draco announced. “He’s old. I’m hot. He likes me.”

_ “I’m  _ the one who’s hot,” Pansy argued, “And he doesn’t like  _ you,  _ he likes my catfish alter-ego.”

“Details,” Draco waved a hand. “He’s already told me about his tragic childhood and that bunion he developed the other week. He trusts me.”

“How do you know what he told you was the truth?” Luna asked.

Draco gave her a silent look which said,  _ I don’t, but don’t make me admit to it in front of Prudence over there. _

“You don’t know, do you?” Pansy narrowed her eyes.

Blaise threw a peanut at Draco’s head. “Confidence killed the dragon, babes.”

Let them think what they wanted to think, the new Draco was a mature mofo.

“God, stop scowling, we’re not trying to antagonise you,” Pansy rolled her eyes. “We’re just worried.”

For that, she got another finger. The  _ typing…  _ continued to type.

“You know about his childhood,” said Blaise, after a while, “And about his bunion.”

Draco was aware of what he had left unsaid.  _ But what about all the important stuff? What about the way he recruits his recruits, and Aunty Bellatrix’s weakness? _

“Everybody shut up.” Draco commanded.

“Nobody was speaking.” Pansy returned.

“Shut up.”

“Draco,” Luna started, “Have you spoken to Ha—”

“We do not speak his name within my premises.” Draco said to her, dangerously.

Luna smiled at him indulgently and held her tongue.

“Harry Potter,” said Pansy, the idiot with no fear. “He’s been eating lunch with Weasley jr these days,”

Draco turned his chair towards his desk, so that he was facing his laptop screen and Pansy couldn’t see his expression.

“Ginevra Weasley,” Blaise whistled. “The finest Weasley to walk the halls of Hogwarts.”

“They make a pretty picture,” Pansy continued, “Potter and Weasley Jr.”

_ Ginevra Potter,  _ thought Draco, bitterly.  _ Harry Potter, Ginevra Potter, their seven children, five dogs, three cats and mansion upon the hills.  _

“Isn’t she dating that bloke?”

“The one with the overbite?”

“No, the one with the—he bites his nails,”

“Ah, yeah. What’s his name? Daniel Thompson?”

“Dean Thomas.” Luna said, “And they broke up.”

Draco whipped his head towards Luna. “They  _ what?” _

“They broke up.”

A thousand separate images flashed across Draco’s eyes. A heartbroken Weaselette must have been  _ irresistible  _ for Potter, with his—his saviour-complex and his bloody protectiveness. What must the conversation have gone like? Maybe Weaselette had pretended to be all strong, playing into Potter’s martyr kink. Not that the martyr card had worked when Draco had played it. Weaselette, though, she had everything Draco didn’t: red hair, a moral compass, boobs.  _ God,  _ Potter wouldn’t have been able to resist.  _ He’s been waiting for this moment,  _ Draco realised, recalling the hostility Potter had shown Thomas in the library. Potter, despite all his talk about morality and honour, was a fucking  _ fiend  _ to have taken advantage of a girl in the throes of heartbreak—

“Stop pacing, it’s giving me a headache.” Pansy snapped.

Without realising, Draco had gotten up from his seat and begun pacing back and forth. He stopped.

Looking calmly at his audience, he said, “I was stretching my legs.”

“Uh huh,” said Pansy, deadpan.

“Never any doubt,” Blaise smirked.

“She doesn’t like him in that way, Draco,” Luna said.

“Fascinating as though your observations are, I haven’t any clue who you refer to when you use impersonal pronouns, and find it quite insulting, actually, that you assume I would care, either way.”

Luna bit her lip in an attempt to hide her smile. “If you haven’t any clue who I’m talking about, why would you then go on to insist that you don’t care?”

“Oh, dear,” Pansy said, “Would you like some cream for that burn, Draco?”

“Bravo, Looney, resident dragon-slayer,” Blaise applauded.

“I hate you all.” Draco said.

“You’re awfully cute sometimes, Draco,” Luna smiled. “Voldy replied, by the way,”

Draco trudged back to his laptop as Blaise and Pansy sniggered in the background.

_ i am organising a shopping mall takeover next sunday. u can come if u want. _

“Well gambled,” Blaise complimented.

Draco was somehow beyond bragging at that moment.

* * *

It was  _ fucking  _ awkward to sit next to Potter in Chemistry three times a week. Even before their partnership, they’d never really ignored the other’s existence to this extent.

_ This is so lame,  _ thought Draco.  _ I feel like I’m in the middle of some cheesy American high-school movie. _

They were currently correcting their homework using the mark-scheme Snape had emailed them. Draco had surprisingly done pretty alright. He had little enough trust in his own abilities in Chemistry that he was focused entirely on correcting his mistakes and not Potter beside him (who had rolled his sleeves up to his forearms and was therefore breaking school rules, the barbarian).

It was only after he’d reinterpreted the NMR graph he’d gotten wrong that ignoring Potter became a more purposeful task. Draco looked first around the classroom to find a comrade. Determining that he had none, he then decided to just be a nerd and do some extra work.

It was while he was doing some spectroscopy exam questions and wishing death upon himself that Potter broke his silence.

“Where did you find the extra questions?”

“The learning platform.” was Draco’s succinct reply.

“Ah. Thanks.”

It was another fifteen minutes of wishing death upon himself before Potter said, “I hate spectroscopy.”

Draco didn’t reply. He and Potter were not  _ friends.  _ They did not converse casually about how hard life was.

Potter was relentless. “It’s like, I signed up for  _ Chemistry _ , not Maths, you know?”

Draco put on his earphones and played white noise to shut Potter out. It worked a little too well, as was evident when a tap on his shoulder revealed Snape standing behind him, unimpressed.

“I was doing exam questions.” Draco defended, before Snape had any chance to accuse him.

“I have eyes, Malfoy.” Snape snided. “I thought I made clear that I dislike students listening to music during class-time.”

“I was listening to white noise, Sir, not music.” Draco said. When Snape continued to give him an unimpressed look, he continued, “Potter wouldn’t shut up.”

Potter winced when Snape glanced at him. Draco knew, however, what was coming. He held out his earphones for Snape to take.

Snape took them blandly. “Arguments between you two are not of interest to me. In my classroom you will follow my rules.”

“Yes, Sir.” said Draco, bored with it all.

Snape looked at him for a second longer before turning to Potter. “Potter.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, what.”

“Yes, Sir?”

“Stop annoying Malfoy.”

Potter flushed, “That would require me to stop existing, Sir.”

Snape looked as if he might have laughed for just a second. “Rather a predicament,” he commented—the shadow of humour gone from his face—before leaving with Draco’s earphones in his hands.

“I tried to warn you that he was coming.” Potter muttered. “But you were ignoring me.”

Draco ignored him.

* * *

“Malfoy!” Potter called after him.

Draco began to speed walk down the hallway. When he heard Potter run to catch up to him, he turned on the spot. His pride disallowed him to run from Potter.

“I…” Potter began. “You—Are…”

“What do you want.” Draco snapped.

“Don’t be mad at me.” Potter rushed out.

“Don’t be mad at you?” Draco repeated, dangerously.

“I—I’m sorry I was—listen, I wasn’t  _ avoiding  _ you. I just needed—um—space.”

“I need my space, as well,” Draco nodded, beginning to turn away.

Potter took hold of his arm and stopped him. Draco shook his hand off.

“I wasn’t avoiding you, Malfoy.” Potter said, holding his hands awkwardly. “I was—I don’t know what I was doing. Can’t you just blame my teenage hormones and—and stop being mad at me?”

Draco gave him a scathing look.

“Didn’t expect it to be that easy,” Potter sighed. He made a face at the floor before looking up, “Okay, how ‘bout you keep being mad at me, but you stop ignoring me.”

“What made you think it’d be easier to get me to stop ignoring you,” Draco asked, disdainfully.

Potter’s eye contact was the worst thing in the world—the way it felt like it saw past all of Draco’s bullshit, the way it felt like it pierced right into his soul.

“We’re frie—”

“We are not  _ friends,  _ Potter.” Draco hissed. “If you think I tolerate being treated like that by a  _ friend,  _ you are sorely mistaken.” 

Potter looked at Draco with guilt on his face. “We’re partners, then. We shook on it.”

“Maybe I want to discontinue the partnership.”

“You don’t.”

When Draco sneered at him, he shrugged. “Your reasons for entering the partnership haven’t changed, no matter how angry you—no matter how angry I’ve made you—stop glaring at me, I changed the wording, didn’t I?”

Draco looked away. “You’re underestimating my anger.”

Potter stared at him for a second. “I don’t think so.”

“You’re—”

“Presumptuous, I know.” he smiled.

Draco looked away again.

“Can’t you give me another chance?” Potter asked. “At friendship, I mean.”

“I’m not a kid, Potter.” Draco said, frustrated.

“Um, what?”

“I don’t have the time and energy to make and break friendships on a whim, like you apparently do.” 

“Malfoy, that’s not—you know what, okay. We’ll put a pause on the friendship thing for now.” Potter bit his lip. “Though I did really like being friends with you.”

Draco hated him so much. He hated so much how he didn’t hate him at all. Looking at him properly from this proximity, Draco noticed faint eye bags under his eyes.

“You haven’t been sleeping, have you?” Potter asked.

“I could say the same of you.”

Potter smiled a little wryly. “Would it piss you off if I said it almost makes me glad our argument is affecting you like this?”

“You know what I’m going to say to that, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Potter bit back a smile, “Presumptuous of me to assume that it was our argument that caused you to lose sleep.”

“Perhaps you're not beyond hope, after all,” it was far too late a realisation, but Draco noticed the acidity had left his tone. 

Potter was more formidable an opponent than Moldy-fuck could ever wish to be.

* * *

“Draco, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but are you sure?” Pansy asked him, before they walked through the doors of the café.

“Your concern’s a little last-minute, isn’t it?” Draco hissed back, loosening his school tie. “You should’ve asked me a half hour ago. We could’ve gone shopping instead.”

“A half hour ago I wanted to see the drama unfold,” Pansy said, “I didn’t realise you’d be so scared to meet Potter over a little rendezvous.”

“Why do you have to make everything sound so dirty?” Draco glared at her. “Voldy’s shopping mall takeover happens this weekend, all we’re doing is sharing information.”

“Then why are you so scared?”

“Because Potter makes me—you know  _ why,  _ Pansy.” Draco accused. “Stop making things more uncomfortable for me because you’re bored.”

“I only do it because I love you,”

“Fuck off.” Draco muttered, hit with a sudden shock of nerves when he noticed the back of Potter’s messy mug.

“You have to admit,” Pansy giggled, “If you were me, you’d be delighting in this schadenfreude just as much, if not more.”

“Doubtlessly.” Draco admitted, sadly.

* * *

“Okay.” said Granger, once Draco—with the help of Pansy and Luna (Blaise had been asked out on a date by his tutor, of all people, and was consequently not present)—had finished divulging all the information he had. “That’s actually really useful, good job, Draco.”

Draco leant back on his chair, “Did you expect anything less of me?”

Granger smiled, “Of course, not.”

Draco smiled back at her. As he picked up his latte, he caught Potter staring at him. The moment their eyes met, Potter glanced away. Draco had a sudden one second fantasy featuring himself flipping over the table between them and showering Potter with profanity. He then had another one second fantasy featuring less clothes and just as much profanity. He hated his mind.

This time, they were seated as far away as possible from each other. Not that that dissuaded Potter’s creepy hobby. Draco wondered whether Potter stared at  _ everyone  _ this way, and if Draco’s subconscious mind had caused him to interpret things optimistically. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time.

The next time he caught Potter staring at him, he sent him a  _ ‘the fuck do you want?’  _ face. That put an end to that.

For ten minutes, that is. Potter was nothing if not relentless.

Just as Draco had been busy catfishing Voldy, Potter—or rather, Golden-boy—had been gathering his own information. He’d been invited by the police to watch the recorded interrogations of Moldy-fucker’s loser followers.

“Did they reveal anything about how they were recruited?” Draco asked.

“The, um, less dangerous ones saw ads—”

Something occurred to Draco, “Where?” 

Potter looked at him weirdly. “On, like, youtube and stuff.”

Draco tried very hard to calm the fuck down.  _ Right. Break-time.  _ He got out of his seat. “I’m going to order another coffee.” Turning to Luna, he asked, “Do you want anything?”

Luna considered his offer for a moment. “A sandwich?”

Draco nodded. As he turned to leave, Pansy called, “I want a hot chocolate!”

Without turning around, Draco gave her the finger. 

All the same, when he came back to the table, he arrived with a tray that held both a sandwich as well as a hot chocolate.

“Would you like a cookie, Granger?” he asked, politely.

Granger blinked and then nodded, “That’s very kind of you, thanks.” She reached over to take a cookie.

Draco sipped his coffee. For a moment, he could almost pretend that he had no problems in life. 

“Malfoy.” said Potter. “You’re freaking me out. What the fuck is wrong with you.”

How expected for Potter to be the one to break the farcical peace.

Draco asked him, quietly, “Did you not think to question how Moldy-fucker managed to pay for all those ads?”

“Money?” Potter answered. “He’s…” Frowning, he seemed to realise, “Wait, he must have—”

“Financial backing.” finished Draco. “Enough to post ads on youtube.”

“I wonder why he hasn’t managed to make anything bigger of himself, with all those resources.” Pansy commented.

Granger frowned. “Maybe he only recently became acquainted with all those resources.”

“We’ve only seen the beginning,” Potter muttered.

Draco sighed. He really hadn’t realised what he was signing up for when he’d promised himself he’d take down the idiot. 

“He’s going to keep attracting more followers,” Granger frowned. “Some who might be on the calibre of Bellatrix or Greyback.”

“Who’s Greyback?” Pansy asked Potter. They were now  _ friendly,  _ Draco remembered with disdain.

“The Wolf-man that was apprehended the last time Malfoy and I met Voldemort.”

“Did you watch his interrogation as well?” Draco asked him. “How was he recruited?”

Granger leant down into her bag and exposed yet another monstrous pile of papers. 

“Stop grinning, you’re embarrassing me.” she blushed, placing her notes on the table between them.

“Why would you be embarrassed about being brilliant?” Draco returned, grinning. He took the papers in hand. The weight of them—the reminder that they had someone so intelligent and hard working on their side—was a comfort.

He couldn’t say the same for the contribution his infernal best friend made to the proceedings.

Pansy looked between Granger and him, and then raised an eyebrow salaciously, “Another homewrecker on our hands.”

“Draco’s gay.” Potter announced.

“Say it louder, why don’t you,” Draco responded, scathingly. He glanced around them to ensure no one of significance had heard, and then took a long sip of his coffee in an effort to calm his frantic heartbeat.

“Draco doesn’t care that she’s a girl.” Pansy ran her hands through his hair. “Do you?”

Draco sent her his most withering look, moving his face away. “Don’t touch my hair.”

“He’s kissed girls before,” Pansy, undeterred, continued running her hands through Draco’s hair.

“Don’t touch my hair.” Draco repeated, moving his face the other way. 

“Astoria Greengrass,” Pansy revealed, still running her grubby hands all over Draco’s perfect hair, “You know her don’t you? The one in fifth year?”

“Fuck’s sake,” Draco muttered, giving up. He asked Granger, “What were we talking about?”

Granger was trying not to laugh, “Turn to the ‘Unrelated Incidents,’ section,”

Draco complied. It was a miscellaneous collection of newspaper clippings. He frowned in concentration and skimmed the headings. A few caught his eye: ‘Unexplained beast aloose?’; ‘Serial killer, or night-beast?’

“These are talking about the wolf-man?” Draco asked, as Pansy tucked his hair behind his ears.

“Greyback, yeah.” 

“You think Voldy recruits the people he seeds out in the media?” Draco considered this for a moment. “Sounds tedious. He’s an old man.”

Granger looked at him intently, “He’s also crazy.”

“Fair enough.” Draco thought it over. “How does he contact them, though? How does he find their personal details?”

Granger gave him a look.

“Oh, fuck me.” Draco groaned. This entire ordeal was one headache after the other.

“Augustus Rookwood.” Potter said. “That was the name Greyback revealed.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. ‘Revealed,’ sounded like a rather cheerful interpretation of the events.“Would I be wrong in assuming that the interrogation wasn’t a pleasant one.”

Potter’s face darkened. “No.”

“Right.” Draco ran a hand over his face. He looked at Potter through his fingers, wondering what it must have felt like to have to watch that. He felt a sudden anger towards the police, despite the fact that they couldn’t have known that Golden-boy was a seventeen year old. He felt, also, a sudden hit of common sense. Looking at Potter as he said it, “Have any of you considered that this is perhaps a tad—beyond our abilities?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Potter asked, annoyed.

“That you’re seventeen years old.” Draco replied, calmly. “And no seventeen year old should be subjected to the footage of a criminal being violently interrogated.” 

Potter looked at Draco’s hands, resting on the table. Draco held them perfectly still, quelling the instinct to twitch under scrutinisation. It was disconcerting to feel so self-conscious about his hands.

It was as Draco was observing Potter’s gaze, in hopes that he would direct it elsewhere, that he noticed the beginnings of a troubling, heroic light dawning in his eyes.

“If you bring up Spiderman right now I’ll throw my coffee at your face.” Draco remarked, offhandedly.

Potter’s lips twitched. The annoying, heroic light faded. He glanced upwards, and his direct attention set Draco’s heart running. “Worried?”

“About myself.”

“Playing hero’s my job, remember?” he smiled, “You wouldn’t ever be subjected to footage like that.”

Nothing satisfied Potter more than throwing Draco’s words back at him. Draco scrutinised Potter, carefully, “How many times did you play that conversation over your head?”

“Who’s the one being presumptuous, now?”

Draco leaned back and smirked. That was basically a confession. “Think about me a lot, do you?”

Potter flushed. “Hardly.”

“Self-delusion is an art,”

“You would know."

“Not as well as you—”

_ “‘How many times did you play that convers— ’ _ _”_ The sound of Draco’s recorded voice left Pansy’s direction.

“Whoops.” she smiled, turning her phone on silent.

Draco wasn’t religious in the least. Even then, he knew, instinctively, that the day Pansy arrived in Hell was the day Satan lost his job.

“Did you—is that snapchat?” Potter blinked, incredulously.

“What’s snapchat?” Pansy got out of her seat to avoid Draco's hands.

* * *

“Rather draconian—” 

“Shut up.” Draco commanded, pocketing Pansy’s turned off phone. He turned to Potter and Granger. “How did Moldy-fuck convince Greyback to join him?”

“He didn’t need much convincing.”

_ Neither presumably did Bellatrix, _ Draco thought. He asked Potter, “Do you know what Rookwood looks like?”

“Yeah, the police pulled up some photos.”

“Do you remember if he was present the last time?”

“I think so,”

“Right.” a plan was formulating in Draco’s head. “Make sure to isolate Rookwood on Sunday.”

“What about Voldemort and Bellatrix?”

“Just make sure you isolate Rookwood.”

Potter eyed him. “What are you planning?”

“He’s trying to understand whether Voldy can continue as effectively without his means of purposeful recruitment.” said Luna.

Draco turned to her, pleased, “How did you figure it out?”

Luna shrugged, “It was obvious.”

“Smart girl,” Pansy purred, reaching out a hand towards Luna which was very quickly intercepted by Draco. In response to Draco’s quelling look, Pansy interlocked their fingers and pulled their hands into her lap, “I’ll behave, Mummy.”

“What about Bellatrix?” Granger asked, delightfully on topic as always, “Did you ask your mum about her weakness?”

Draco winced. “No.” It was difficult to approach the topic. With Potter’s presence nearby, he remembered, at that moment, his leverage—how his mum had secretly invited Potter over for dinner. “I’ll ask her today and text you.”

“I’ll make a group chat,” Granger said, pulling out her phone. “Text on there.”

“Let’s have a sleepover next,” Pansy delighted, waving her and Draco’s interlocked hands all over the place. “Potter, I’ll paint your nails,”

Draco couldn’t help smiling at the image. He waggled his eyebrows at Potter, “Hotter Than You Pink or My Very First Knockwurst, Golden-boy?”

Potter tried desperately to blink away the terrified confusion in his eyes, “What.”

He was so bloody irresistible. “Let’s go with My Very First Knockwurst, Pans,”

Potter flushed and glanced at Draco.

“It’s nude,” Draco explained, smirking.

Potter flushed, impossibly, harder.

Pansy grinned, enjoying Potter’s alarm almost as much as Draco. “While I paint his hands, you can brush My Very First Knockwurst all over his toes.”

Draco might have blushed, himself, but amusing in Potter’s reaction kept him calm. He grinned at Potter suggestively, “Well?”

Potter cleared his throat. He looked like a terrified grape, it was hilarious. “I—I have, um—I don’t think it’s—well, Malfoy, you—Parkinso—”

“If I’m going to Knockwurst your hands, you may as well call me Pansy, Potter.”

“But—you still call me Potter?”

“Naturally.”

Potter looked at Draco in confusion. Draco winked at him, just to draw out his flustered state. Potter covered his face with his hands and looked away. The action was an arrow through Draco’s heart. The hellish thought crossed his mind, as he glimpsed Potter’s ears, of what it would feel like to bite them, of the sound Potter would make in response.

“We can invite Theo to Knockwurst  _ your  _ hands, Draco,” Pansy continued, breaking Draco’s trance.

_ Fuck.  _ Draco dug his fingernails into her hand to shut her up. On second thought, maybe Pansy was too stupid to be the high-ruler of Hell.

“Theodore Nott?” Granger raised her eyebrows, “I hadn’t realised he was—oh, sorry, I didn’t mean...”

Draco was just opening his mouth to diffuse the situation, when Potter said, “They’re taking the piss, ‘Mione. It’s not like Malfoy wants—” he coughed awkwardly, “—my feet.”

Granger looked at Draco knowingly, too intelligent for her own good. Draco refused to admit to  _ anything.  _ He smiled at her blandly. “Pansy likes to tease me about Theodore because I think he’s fit,”

Pansy let out a choked laugh.

“He is very refined,” Luna commented, “You look nice together,”

It was nice to know he had at least  _ one  _ comrade. Draco put a hand over his heart, “If only,”

“What’s the plan, then.” Potter asked.

“Fantasise and mope,” Draco joked, “Maybe download Tinder and let off some steam,”

“I’m talking about Voldemort,” Potter snapped, scowling. “Why aren’t any of you focusing?”

Pansy burst out laughing.

“I thought we’d killed the Saint in you,” Draco commented, teasingly. “Apparently not,”

“I just don’t understand why we’re not focusing on what’s  _ actually  _ important.” Potter scowled. “None of you are taking this seriously.”

Draco set his jaw. He smiled, just slightly tighter than was probably natural, and drawled, “I can’t say I’ve missed this side of you.”

Potter sneered, “I can’t say I’m sorry for constantly disappointing you.”

_ What happened to wanting to be my friend, liar?  _ Draco wondered, harshly, what the fuck gave Potter the right to play with his feelings like this, even just unknowingly. How dare he make Draco feel so incredibly mushy with his stupid blushes, and then so incredibly stung with his inevitable judgement and disdain.  _ You piece of ungrateful cow shit, I gave up my emotional stability to fall in love with you. _

“Well?” Potter demanded, his arms crossed and a put-off expression on his face.

“I’ll talk to my mum,” Draco said, in clipped tones. He turned to Luna, “Have you finished?”

Luna looked at him for a second and finished the rest of her sandwich in three bites before nodding.

Draco smiled at her, filled with soft affection in response to her consideration, “Lets go, then,”

“I haven’t finished my hot chocolate,” Pansy started, watching them pack up in panic.

“Oh, no,” Draco returned, smiling.  _ Serves you right, crazy bint. _

“Don’t forget to text on the group chat,” Granger said.

“If I feel like it,” Draco drawled. At her consternation, he grinned, “See you in English, Granger.”

She rolled her eyes with what Draco  _ swore  _ was begrudging fondness, “Bye, Draco,”

“Wait, Draco, my phone—” Pansy called, frantically downing her hot chocolate.

Draco bared his teeth at her in a smile and waved cheerfully, making sure not to look at Potter even once before leaving with Luna and Pansy’s phone in his pocket.

* * *

“Mother.” said Draco.

Narcissa scrutinised him. She was Mum on a normal day, Mummy when Draco was in trouble, and Mother when the reverse was true. “Draco.”

“You betrayed me.” Draco remarked, calmly.

They were both sitting on the couches in the living room, post-dinner. The accusation was a very civilised one.

“Care to elaborate?” Narcissa took a sip of tea.

She always waited for her opponent to reveal the extent of their information before revealing anything of her own. It was a trick Draco was familiar with.

“Harry Potter wasn’t exactly who I had in mind when you told me Remus and Sirius were bringing their child to dinner.”

The way she looked at him made Draco certain that she knew what he was doing. Still, he kept his face impassive.

Cradling her tea cup in her hands, she said, “I’m afraid I can’t accept culpability for Harry Potter’s existence,”

“You deliberately concealed information.”

She sipped her tea, “Was it of great significance to you?”

Draco smiled, refusing to offer an answer as corroborating evidence. “I know that you personally invited him.”

She sipped some more of her tea. Her lack of answer was a confirmation in itself.

Draco felt a sting of hurt that he hadn’t let himself explore before. This was his _mother._ She was meant to always, without exception, be on his side. “I can’t believe you would do something like that to me.”

She dropped her mask, then. “Draco—”

“Was it fun for you to see me upset?”

“It seems I’ve severely overestimated your talents if you think I did it for trivial amusement.” she said, blandly.

Draco looked away from her. He’d guessed, of course, her intention. He knew his mother as well as vice versa. Still, “You used me as a means to an end.”

“A means to  _ your  _ end.”

“You betrayed me.” Draco repeated. “I know that you know what he is to me.”

She paused, “I didn’t know with any certainty until the dinner.”

“See?” Draco accused. “It wasn’t a means to my end, after all.”

“Draco.” she said, her brow furrowing. “I—suspected, of course, but you wouldn’t admit anything to even yourself,”

“Don’t use that as an excuse. You could have asked me.”

“You’re my son. I recognise my own traits in you.” she looked at him affectionately, “You wouldn’t have given me an honest answer.”

“That’s still no excuse. You went behind my back when there were easier, more honourable, means.”

“Look at you, talking about honour,” she smiled.

“Stop changing the subject,”

“I’m happy for you.”

“I don’t care.”

She hesitated. “The means I used…”

Draco refused to show anything in his expression.

Her voice softened, “I had to know who he was for myself. You were so taken with him,” her expression took on a more embarrassed light, “I was ready to have him disappear if he didn’t meet my standards.”

Draco tried not to smile at the knowledge that his mother would have had someone potentially assassinated for his sake.

She continued, “I spoke to him.”

“I know.”

“He’s a difficult person,”

“Yeah,” Draco hated how bloody fond he sounded just then.

“At the start, I didn’t like him,” she admitted. “I kept asking myself what on earth...” she gazed at Draco as she continued, “my child, who I raised so preciously, what could he ever see in this completely mediocre boy,”

“He’s not awful looking.”

“Please, Draco.” Narcissa gave him a look, “If that was all it took, you’d be looking at Blaise the way you look at Harry.”

Draco blushed.

“I was prepared to lose Remus’s friendship for your sake,” his mother admitted. “The only thing that stopped me was the realisation that if anything were to happen to that boy, you would inadvertently be hurt.” She looked at him sheepishly, “And so I forced myself to keep talking to him, and—well, I still didn’t like him, I couldn’t help it.”

Draco tried very hard not to burst into laughter.

“His incompetence made me doubt my instincts,” she revealed. “I wondered whether I had just imagined your obsession—don’t deny it, darling—was romantic in nature,”

Draco waited for her to finish her sentence patiently.

Chagrined, she continued, “And so I invited him to dinner, in order to discern the nature of your feelings.”

“A means to  _ your  _ end.” Draco said, triumphantly.

“A means to my end is ultimately a means to yours,” Narcissa returned, “You must know by now that everything I ever do is for your sake.”

Draco really did love his mother an awful amount.

“I have to admit,” Narcissa continued, “it physically hurt me when I saw what he was wearing.”

“I  _ know.” _ Draco agreed. “How could Sirius let him dress himself?”

She shook her head, smiling, “It hurt me more when I saw the way you looked at him, in spite of __ his clothes.”

She had a point. Draco tried not to feel ashamed by how low his standards were.

“But then I saw…” she paused, looking at Draco carefully. “He’s a good boy.”

“Yeah,” Draco said, quietly. He cleared his throat. “It doesn’t change the fact that you betrayed me.”

“Draco,” she sighed. “I know what you’re doing.”

“Accusing you of betrayal.”

She smiled at him. “Don’t try to pull this crap on your own mother, sweetheart.”

“I’m unsure what you’re talking about,”

She looked at him coolly.

“You just—Mum, why do you never  _ tell  _ me anything?” It was time to make the segue, “You’ve never even told me about Aunty Bellatrix.”

Her eyes widened for a fraction of a second before she sighed, loudly, “I suppose it’s my own fault that you’re so good at covering up your tracks.”

“As long as you’re self-aware.”

“Draco?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

“Okay, Mummy.”

She rolled her eyes. “I suppose you’re old enou—” she stopped speaking and frowned, “Why the sudden interest, by the way?”

Draco had to be  _ very  _ careful. If his mum got any whiff of the reality of the situation, Voldemort would be the least of his troubles.

“I was just angry at you about Potter and it reminded me of all the other things that you’ve done that made me angry.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

It was Draco’s turn to sigh. “Can’t you just trust me?”

She looked at him coolly, again.

“Okay, fine,” Draco acquiesced, “Can’t you just feel mildly guilty and indulge me? I was genuinely upset.”

“Not unless you tell me why you’ve developed this interest.”

“I’ve always been curious and I finally had leverage,” Draco shrugged. “She’s my psychopathic aunt.”

It took awhile for Narcissa to answer, presumably because she was scanning Draco for a lie (the trick, Draco had realised, was to tell the truth, but out of context) “...I assume you know enough about her already.”

“Only about her husband.”

It was disconcerting to observe shock on his mother’s face. Faintly, she said, “Draco.”

“Mum, I’m eighteen.” he tried emulating maturity. “I can’t grow up unless you let me.”

She seemed to struggle with herself for a while. Eventually, “You’re seventeen.” And then, after a sigh, “What is it that you’re curious about,”

Draco smiled.  _ Mission accomplished. _ “What was she like as a child?”

Narcissa sighed again, “She liked tormenting people weaker than her. This often translated to Andromeda and I.” 

“She hurt you?”

“Not exactly,” Narcissa frowned, “She liked manipulating us into ruining ourselves—she drove a wedge between Dromeda and our parents.”

This surprised him, “I hadn’t realised that she was smart enough to do something like that,”

“No?” she smiled. “Did you never wonder why I am the way that I am?”

_ Oh, shit,  _ Draco realised. The world around him shifted slightly.

“Fire must be fought with fire,” she said, simply.

“I—just don’t see how someone that smart could have been caught,” Draco continued.

“She wasn’t caught at first.” was Narcissa’s quiet reply.

“At first?”

“I broke all ties with her after coming of age and can’t say anything with absolute certainty, but I suspect her arrogance was her downfall.” Narcissa paused to gather her thoughts, “She had a tendency of getting—careless after repeated victories.”

“But even after being caught, how was she apprehended?” Draco questioned, “How on earth did anyone manage to prevent her from teleporting?”

Narcissa eyed him. “Who told you about her power?”

“Grand-uncle Alphard got drunk one day and wouldn’t shut up.”

Narcissa made a disdaining face and shook her head before explaining,“Her power requires an inordinate amount of energy. She can’t use it continuously.”

_ Ah.  _ “The time required for recuperation is proportional to the distance she’s travelled?”

Narcissa nodded approvingly, “The police set up tight surveillance within a ten kilometre radius and waited for her to teleport out of their grasp.”

“Her threshold is ten kilometres?” Narcissa nodded. Draco’s mind was running, “They let her think she had gotten away… how long did they have to find her before she could use her powers again?”

Narcissa shrugged a one shouldered shrug. “I’ve never been much interested in her powers. My battle was always against her mind.”

Draco frowned. He couldn’t ask his mother more questions without arousing her suspicion. He said, instead, “I can’t reconcile that image in my mind.”

Narcissa laughed, “She was smart, but not as smart as she thought she was.”

Draco frowned in thought.

* * *

He finished typing everything into the group chat Granger had made and hit  _ send. _

A few minutes later:

Ron Weasley: ur family is so fucked up Malfoy

Ugly Cow: At least they’re hot @RonWeasley

Granger: Shut up, Ron.

Granger: Would Sirius know how long it takes Bellatrix to use her teleportation again? @DracoMalfoy @HarryPotter

Bane of My Existence: He hates her I doubt it

Bane of My Existence: If he figures out what I’m doing he’ll tell Moony

Bane of My Existence: d o n o t m a k e m e a s k h i m

Draco rolled his eyes. He tried recalling the name of Bellatrix’s dead husband. It was something Christmassy... _a_ _ h.  _

Me: Try searching up Rodolphus Lestrange on Google

Blazey Bun: Google. Genius.

Me: Fck off

Me: ^it’s the name of her husband. There’s a line or two about her on his Wikipedia page, but I can’t remember exactly what it says

Me: It mentions the day his corpse was discovered, and some details about the culprit

Me: If any of you (@HermioneGranger) find the difference between the dates of when the police first attempted to arrest the culprit and the day they were actually arrested we could get a rough estimate

Ugly Cow: She’s on Wikipedia? Damn.

Blazey Bun: Goalz

Ron Weasley: I’m confused

Granger: !!!

Granger: Not bad, Draco

Ron Weasley: Someone pls

Ron Weasley: wtf is happening

Ron Weasley: And also why isn’t Malfoy searching it up himself

Draco was watching netflix. He deserved a break.

Ugly Cow: Welcome to our world, Weasel

Blazey Bun: Speak for yourself

Ron Weasley: If u know wtf is happening fckg explain

Blazey Bun: oh i have no idea

Blazey Bun: I j have no desire to know

Ron Weasley: wtf

Ugly Cow: lolol

Blazey Bun: I am content having no idea what's going on

Ugly Cow: #isheenlightenedorstoned

Me: Both

Blazey Bun: It’s called having chill

Blazey Bun: You should try it sometime @PansyParkinson @DracoMalfoy

Ron Weasley: @HermioneGranger @HarryPotter where tf are u two how could u abandon me

Granger: It took the police 8 days to arrest her @DracoMalfoy

Looney: Would anyone know where I can find fresh lemongrass?

Ron Weasley: wtaf

Bane Of My Existence: @LunaLovegood Have you asked Neville?

Looney: Oh, right! Thanks, Harry! :)

Bane Of My Existence: :)

Ugly Cow: What are you using the lemongrass for Luna?

Looney: Nothing, why?

Ugly Cow: LOL

Blazey Bun: LOL

Ron Weasley: Luna.

Granger: @DracoMalfoy ?? Where are you ???

Ron Weasley: @HarryPotter where tf are YOU

Bane Of My Existence: hi

Looney: Hi, Harry :)

Bane Of My Existence: Hi, Luna :)

Granger: @DracoMalfoy ????

Ugly Cow: Don’t bother Granger he’s probably jerking off

At that notification, Draco opened the group chat.

Me: How did you know @PansyParkinson

Ugly Cow: _SexyWink.gif_

Me: yum

Blazey Bun: UR yum Dracon

Ron Weasley: why am i even part of this group chat

Me: @Granger Thanks for confirming, sorry about being so useless, I’m used to working with these two losers: @PansyParkinson @BlaiseZabini

Blazey Bun: Love you too, babes

Me: @Granger Her recuperation time depends on the extent she’s used her powers i.e. how far she teleported + (I assume) if she teleported alone vs if she teleported someone with her

Me: But we can assume 8 days is her minimum requirement

Looney: hmmm...

Looney: Aunty Bellatrix teleported Voldy away on the day of your History exam and then again two days later, on the day of your Chemistry exam

Me: fml you're right

Me: What would I do without you? @LunaLovegood

Ugly Cow: That’s my girl  _ hearteyes.gif _

_ Draco Malfoy removed Pansy Parkinson from ‘What Are The Odds’ _

Blazey Bun: LMAOOOOOOO

Blazey Bun: savage.

Granger: So do we assume her minimum limit is three days? @DracoMalfoy

Me: Yeah

Me: Either Moldy-fucker’s headquarters are located close to where he’s planned all his takeovers

Me: Or she overdid herself and that’s why he’s waited so long to plan something else

Me: Or she’s suddenly become omnipotent during her time in custody and we’re all fucked

Blazey Bun: ^Last one

Ron Weasley: @HarryPotter save me.

Granger: Let’s just assume that it takes her a minimum of 3 days to recuperate.

Granger: For my sanity.

_ Luna Lovegood added Pansy Parkinson to ‘What Are The Odds’ _

Ugly Cow: What did I miss?

Blazey Bun: Draco sent us a dick pic

Blazey Bun: LOLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL POTTER I SEE YOU

Ugly Cow: LOOOOLLLLL EXPOSED

Ron Weasley: Disappointed

Ron Weasley: But not surprised

Bane Of My Existence: It was a coincidence calm down!

Blazey Bun: I love read receipts

Ugly Cow: _ TEA.gif _

Looney: Harry, you’re so cute :)

Bane Of My Existence: I was in the bathroom!

Ugly Cow: _raisessuggestiveeyebrow.gif_

Me: Luna why tf did you add her to the group chat again

Ugly Cow: ^he loves me you guys. He just pretends not to.

* * *

Draco and Potter were not on a date.

It was  _ not  _ a date.

It wasn’t!

It was Sunday and they were waiting for Moldy-fucker to put his plan in action in Goldplex shopping mall (Draco had gotten the minutiae of the details after accepting Voldy’s invitation). It wasn’t a date. Draco had only spent his usual three hours in the bathroom this morning. 

He wasn’t even dressed nicely. He was wearing a hoodie, for fuck’s sake, and jeans.

So it was not a date.

_ It is not a date, stop getting ahead of yourself.  _ Draco stared at the display of a passing store and tried, desperately, to calm the fuck down.

It didn’t help that Potter, with his black button down, looked partially presentable today. It also didn’t help that the capricious bastard was being friendly again. It also, also didn’t help that secretly, Draco knew that even if Potter looked like a homeless person and was being a prick, nothing about Draco’s wishful nature would change.

Maybe Blaise was onto something with the whole ‘masochistic tendencies,’ thing.

“Are you hungry?” Potter asked.

Draco stuck his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie and scowled. “We’re not here on a date, Potter.”

Potter grinned. “I didn’t say we were.”

“Then stop talking about useless things and focus.” Draco snapped.

They spent a few minutes in silence, focusing.

“I like your hoodie.” Potter muttered, hesitantly.

_ Stop it. Stop it, now. _

“Thank you.” Draco answered, prim enough to make his mother proud.

“Are you mad at me, again?”

“Are you seriously asking me that?” Draco looked at him incredulously. “You? Do you not realise how unpredictable you’ve been recently?”

Potter was silent for a while. Eventually, he coughed, “One less reason to hate me.”

“What?”

Potter blushed. “You said I was predictable.”

_ Oh, for fuck’s sake.  _ He was talking about that—that cursed afternoon.

“How many times do you replay these moments in your head?” Draco asked him. “And why the fuck are you wearing a button down.”

Potter latched onto the second question desperately. “‘Mione told me to dress differently to—” he lowered his voice, looking around to make sure no-one had heard, “—you know. It’s less suspicious.” He nodded towards Draco, “Isn’t that what you’re doing as well?”

It was, but Draco wasn’t going to admit to it. He glanced down at his watch. Any second, now.

“Are you sure you’re not hungry?” Potter asked, again.

Draco scowled. They were on a stake out and all Potter could think of was food. Typical. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I’m just asking…”

“Don’t.”

Another moment passed in silence.

“I thought maybe we could have a meal together.” he said it so quietly that for a second Draco thought that his wishful thinking had turned into wishful hallucinations.

Draco stared at Potter. He was holding himself so rigidly, almost as if he was—scared. Of what, though? Draco’s rejection?  _ Wishful thinking,  _ Draco reminded himself. Looking at Potter, however, looking at his despondency, it seemed the only conceivable answer. It was such a strange concept to think that  _ Potter  _ could be vying for  _ Draco’s  _ attention, and not vice versa.

“I’m not hungry,” said Draco. When Potter’s shoulders began wilting, he bit back a smile, “But I like ice cream, and there’s an ice cream place over there.”

Potter beamed at him—“I like ice cream, too,”—as if the common interest between them was evidence for how they were always meant to be friends.

There was a time, during the throes of his self-denial, that Draco had convinced himself he hated Potter because of how pleased Potter’s anger made him. It was true, still, that making Potter angry satisfied some perverse desire within him, but the more accurate truth was that eliciting  _ any  _ response from Potter, seeing the expressions dance across his face and feeling, hopelessly, of significance to him, was what brought him pleasure. A sudden possessive instinct gave way to the inconceivable fantasy of hiding Potter away in his pocket, so that no one else could see him like this—so blithe and young. To Draco, the vision he made could have tempted a saint out of celibacy.

And it was wishful thinking, again, which made Draco classify the eye contact between them as lingering. As if Potter might also be holding himself back, as if those green eyes—emerald and hazel, all at once—could ever hold desire greater than friendship for Draco.

_ Ten minutes,  _ Draco told himself,  _ I’ll indulge myself for ten minutes.  _ He would let his gaze linger and his expression soften, just for ten minutes. He could do that and not let things get weird. He could indulge himself and still satisfy Potter’s odd desire to be friends.

“Alright, then, Potter,” Draco drawled, “I’ll grant you the privilege of my presence.”

“I’m honoured,”

“Obviously,” Draco articulated. He raised an eyebrow, “Let’s get some ice cream, loser.” and with those words, began walking towards the ice cream stand without looking back to check if Potter was following.

There was something extremely distinctive about Potter’s presence. Even with his head turned the other way, Draco could feel him by his side a second later.

So they walked, side by side, to the ice cream stand.

“When’s Voldy coming?” Potter asked him, as they joined the queue. Voldy was Moldy-fuck’s unanimous code-name within the rather slapdash What Are The Odds squad.

Draco glanced at his watch. “Anytime from—now, to three hours from now.”

“Brilliant.”

“Just so we’re clear, if he arrives while I’m eating my ice cream, you’re on your own.”

“Shocking.”

“I’m not discarding my ice cream to fight him.”

“What a surprise.”

Draco eyed him. “I don’t know if I appreciate the way you express your gratitude, Potter.”

Potter scrunched his nose, a laugh hiding somewhere in the lines of his face, “But I’m being so sincere?”

“That’s the problem.” Draco sighed, dramatically, “You’re obsequious.”

“I thought you’d like all my grovelling, Malfoy,”

_ Ten minutes,  _ Draco had promised himself. Glancing down at his watch, he noted only one of those minutes was left.

“Grovelling? That’s boring.” Draco looked at Potter and smirked slowly, lowering his voice and moving closer to his ear, “But the things I’d do to see you on your knees,”

Potter flinched away from Draco’s breath. That didn’t stop him, however, from seeking out eye contact and saying, in response, “Think about that image a lot, do you?”

“You on your knees?” Draco asked, revelling in their proximity and the intoxication that came with being stupidly, stupidly honest, “More often than is probably healthy,”

Potter opened his mouth to say something while frowning, but visibly stopped himself. Draco glanced back at his watch. His ten minutes of indulgence were up.

“Apparently,” continued Draco, the dangerous tilt hidden from his voice, again, “I have a domineering personality and relish in the surrender of my enemies.”

“Enemies,” muttered Potter.

“I notice how you didn’t disagree with the comment about my personality being domineering.”

Potter shook his head, and looked away, smiling, “It’s ridiculous. You’re the most compliant person I’ve ever met.”

“Exactly.” Draco agreed, “I’m being unfairly accused, Potter. Go beat up the bullies for me.”

They had reached the front of the line. While Draco scanned their surroundings, Potter asked to try five different flavours before settling for blackforest cheesecake.  _ Voldy  _ was still nowhere to be seen.

“Malfoy?” Potter said, “Your order?”

“The usual, please,” Draco told the person behind the vats of ice cream.

They paid and walked back to where they had been standing initially. The stake out continued, with the only difference being the cone of strawberry ice cream in Draco’s hands.

“The usual,” Potter said, amused. “Why am I not surprised that it’s strawberry.’

Draco took a slow lick of his ice cream, “I like the things that I like.”

Potter glanced at his ice cream. “Strawberry.”

“Do you have a problem,” Draco licked his ice cream, savouring the flavour, “with my tastes?”

Potter glanced again at his ice cream, “Yeah,”

“The fuck, Potter.”

Potter blinked, “Huh? Wait, what did you just say?”

Draco eyed him, incredulously. “I asked if you have a problem with my tastes and you said yes, so now we’re apparently beefing.”

“Wha—you’re such a twat.” Potter rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to waste my time judging you on your favourite ice cream flavour,”

“What would I do without your enormous capacity for benevolence, my hero,”

“I’ve got better things to judge you on,” Potter took a few quick licks of his own ice cream, “Like your absurd coffee intake.”

“Excuse yourself, Potter.” Draco responded, indignant. “I have a completely normal coffee intake.”

Potter looked at him seriously, “You drank five cups in the span of two hours.”

“And?”

Potter bit into his cone, “I also like to judge you on your highly skewed perspective of the world.”

“Why must you destroy your golden persona like this?” Draco accused, dramatically, “Why are you disillusioning me?”

“I don’t believe you’ve been illusioned with me even one second of your entire life.”

Draco grinned and bit into his cone. “That’s a surprisingly not-stupid observation.”

Potter glanced at Draco’s ice cream cone, “Yeah,”

“I just complimented you, Potter.” Draco noticed a smear of strawberry ice cream on his thumb. He licked it off. “You’re disappointing me with your response.”

“Yeah,” Potter swallowed.

Draco wondered what the fuck was wrong with Potter this time. He raised a bored eyebrow, “Was the blackforest not good or something?”

“Ye—huh? Oh, yeah.” Potter paused. “I mean, no, it was fine. Malfoy, can I ask you something?”

Draco took in a breath, knowing that Potter hadn’t been listening to anything he had said for the past few minutes, “The fucking  _ audacity—” _

“You ordered ‘the usual,” Potter interrupted, “Did you ever come here with Nott?”

Draco looked at him in disbelief. “Why is that any of your business?”

“I just wondered whether you brought your boyfriend here with you.”

“Again,” Draco repeated, increasingly befuddled and irritated, “Why the fuck is that any of your business?”

“I’m just curious, Malfoy.” Potter returned, “You don’t have to protect your  _ boyfriend,” _ he said the word like a normal person would say anal warts. 

“First of all,” Draco looked at him as witheringly as he could. (Not that Potter was ever withered.) “he’s not my boyfriend, so stop—”

“He’s not your boyfriend?”

“Why—”

“What about the younger Greengrass sister?”

Draco couldn’t help his scowl. “You're awfully curious today, mother-in-law.”

Potter opened and closed his mouth a few times, like a handsome, gaping fish. After a while, Draco’s patience died—perhaps irrevocably, this time.

“Spit it out.” he commanded, in utter fury.

“Are you dating Parkinson and/or Zabini.” Potter blurted.

“Yes, Potter,” Draco drawled, caustically, “Pansy, Blaise and I are in a very kinky polygamous relationshi—stop giving me that look, you idiot, it was a joke, what the fuck is _wrong_ with you—”

“So you’re not—”

“If you interrupt me again I’ll cut out your tongue and feed it to Blaise’s pet fish.” Draco said, calmly.

“Malfoy.” said Potter, completely unperturbed by Draco’s completely valid threat because he was an incorrigible buffoon, “Are you single.”

“Why?” Draco spat, maliciously and without thinking, “Interested?”

Potter’s answering expression made Draco dizzy. He’d broken eye contact and moved backwards, flushing furiously while he pursed his lips. His silence was heavy with—fatal implication. All of it screamed, ‘ _ busted!’  _

“You can’t be serious,” Draco croaked faintly, feeling the world around him falling to pieces.

And that is when the sound of a scream entered his ears and the world around him began, quite literally, falling to pieces. Draco looked over the railing he was standing by to the ground floor.

“Scream!” bellowed some rando in black, sending sparks of glitter into the air. Draco noticed Moldy-fuck nodding approvingly behind him.

_ “Scream!”  _ the rando repeated maniacally, pointing his fucking glitter at a pregnant woman. Draco noticed a conveniently discarded flip-flop lying in the middle of all the commotion. He levitated it above the glitter-emitting bastard,  _ “Screa— _ ow!— _ OW!” _ Draco began to beat him mercilessly with the floating flip flop. Glitter-bastard put his arms over his head in order to protect himself to no avail.

“I’m going to change,” Potter murmured into Draco’s ear, putting a hand on his shoulder, “Finish your ice cream,” and then he left to where they had stored their clothes, leaving Draco with nothing but a burning earlobe, a screaming subconscious, a half-melted ice cream, and a dozen wankers to take his frustration out on.

Draco rested his forearms casually on the railing and took a bite out of his ice cream cone. When he noticed Bellatrix behind Moldy-fuck, he put up his hood and continued to fuck shit up from his vantage point, hidden within the growing crowd of people around him.

* * *

Draco had broken the water fountain, effectively cornered the entire entourage minus Moldy-fuck and his guard dog, Aunty-Bellatrix, and brought one and a half grown men to tears by the time Potter emerged wearing his paper bag.

“Stop this,” Draco murmured, inaudibly.

“Stop this.” Potter called, predictably. Draco grinned into the back of his hand.

“Golden-boy!” came the cheers of adulation.

Moldy-fuck pointed accusingly to Potter,  _ “You!” _

Potter sent a flare of fire towards a loser-follower who was trying to escape from where he’d been cornered by Draco. The flare was harmless, but it was flashy enough to send the loser-follower cowering. “Surrender, Voldemort.”

_ “Golden-boy.”  _ Moldy-fuck shouted. He must have overdone himself, because he then had to pause and hack for a while. He was so pathetic. Draco eyed him with disdain. Eventually, Moldy-fuck glared with moist, mucousy eyes, and continued, “You’ve made a dangerous enemy.”

Potter sighed and held his arms out. He pushed the civilians behind him backwards with a gentle rush of wind. “I tried to warn you.”

A girlish squeal arose into the air. Draco rolled his eyes. 

And then he pushed away from the railing and through the crowd behind him to change into his  _ own  _ clothes, lest Golden-boy let things get too boring.

* * *

“Where’s your snake, Moldy-wart?” Tacky drawled. Her voice carried through the crowd, the people around her parted. Draco had to admit, the feeling was  _ delectable. _

_ “You!”  _ Moldy-fuck shrieked. Draco sent a dirty look to Potter's direction when he processed how untouched all the criminalistic idiots around him appeared.

“The power-plant,” Tacky counted on her fingers, “a high-way, and now a shopping mall.” She crossed her arms, “Have you finally realised your calibre?”

Bellatrix stood behind Moldy-fuck, eyeing Draco. Draco broke into a sweat and automatically entered his ‘pretend nothing is wrong and continue as always,’ state.

Bellatrix moved closer to Moldy-fuck. Draco suppressed a gag at the adoration clearly expressed on her face. Maybe having no-one to talk to for years in the psychiatric hospital had destroyed any sense of standards she’d had.

Draco moved toward Potter. Surreptitiously, he whispered, “Spotted?”

Potter—no, Golden-boy nodded silently. Rookwood was accounted for, then. So far, things were going accordingly.

Tacky started, “Before we continue, Moldy-wart—”

“That’s not his name,” some loser-follower interrupted.

Tacky flicked a finger and the man who’d interrupted her was flung into the stagnant water fountain. She continued, irrefragably, as her audience gaped on, “As I was saying, Moldy-fuck—before we continue, I need you to know that I think you’re extremely pathetic and if you continue doing what you’re doing I will destroy you utterly,  _ comprendre? _ ”

Moldy-fuck’s expression darkened, “I will make you regret the day you crossed me, transvestite.”

Tacky smiled.  _ “Now.” _

Golden-boy erected a sudden cage of fire around the rest of Moldy-fucker’s followers. And then, without giving Draco any warning, he twisted his hand and the potted plants around Moldy-fuck exploded. The exposed earth within them flew towards Moldy-fuck and Bellatrix and began condensing around their feet, locking them to the spot.  _ What is he doing?  _ Draco snarled. The plan had been to leave Voldemort and Bellatrix alone. Draco glanced towards the loser-followers. The fire cage around them was beginning to dissipate due to Potter's divided attention.

Tacky turned and lifted her hands theatrically before clicking her fingers. The glass displays of all the surrounding shops shattered. The loser-followers moved closer into themselves within their almost non-existent fire cage. “If you move even a step away from where you’re standing right now,” Tacky threatened, relishing in all their trembling, “I’ll do the same to your internal organs.”

One of the loser-follower’s fell to the floor. For a second, Draco thought he was prostrating himself, but then he realised, with a macabre humour, that he had just fainted. Or possibly had a heart attack. On second thought, maybe that lie about the internal organs had gone a tad overboard.

The sound of Potter’s surprised “Shit,” caught Draco’s attention. Draco turned just in time to see Potter set something flying towards his face on fire. Draco then watched in horror as the unidentified object combusted in a small explosion and Potter was sent flying backwards.

Draco thought, blankly, that someone might be screaming. Maybe a lot of people were screaming.

Numbly, he began walking, and then running, towards Potter’s still form. All Draco could think, in panic, was how he would ever be able to breath again if Potter had—if he had…

Potter stirred, weakly. Something in Draco started working again. He skidded to a stop.

And it occurred to him to look back at where Voldemort and Bellatrix had been standing.

There was nothing there.

In dawning panic, he turned back to where the loser-followers were still cowering and managed, somehow, to snarl,  _ “Stay.” _

Behind him, on the floor, Potter had readjusted his paper-bag and with his head down, was clutching his side. 

Draco was going to kill him.

* * *

“Um.” said the policeman. “Golden-boy?”

Draco pursed his lips and glared viciously at Potter, who was standing off-centre and had most certainly hurt himself, and yet had still insisted on waiting until the police got here. Draco turned his glare on the policeman.

“Um,” said the policeman, beginning to fidget on the spot.

“Sorry about her,” Potter said, gesturing towards Draco, or rather, Tacky-pillar, “We’re working together, now.”

Draco drew himself to his full six feet and one inch and glowered harder at the policeman, daring him to try and arrest him.

“Ah…” the policeman said, uncomfortably, “Um, but—well—legally speaking, she’s still…” he trailed off awkwardly. “What exactly happened here.” he said, instead.

Potter explained meticulously how he had gone against the fucking plan and ruined everything like always. Nobody approached Draco, but at one point he made eye contact with one of Moldy-fuck’s loser-followers. Draco watched placidly as the woman first started and then deliberately aided in her own handcuffing while visibly holding back tears.

“Are we done?” Draco said, irritably.

The policeman that had been talking to Potter glanced at him nervously, “No?” At Draco’s stare, he corrected himself, “I mean, yes. Yes, we’re done. Thanks for the help, Golden-boy.” and then the policeman walked away pretty fast-like.

“Tacky,” said Potter, amused.

“Don’t you dare Tacky me,” Draco returned, coldly. He took hold of Potter’s arm and pulled him away from the crowd. He pulled him out of the mall and then around it to the back, through a door into the fire escape where they had left their clothes.

“Malfoy.” Potter croaked, faintly. 

Draco turned to him, a shout on his tongue which was only flamed when he saw that Potter had taken off his paper-bag, and was pale-faced and grimacing, “Are you  _ crazy?” _

“Sorry,” Potter said, quietly.

“We had a plan!” Draco shouted.

“Sorry,” there was sweat collecting on his forehead. “Malfoy, I need to sit down.”

Draco took off his wig and sock mask, threw them on the floor and backed Potter against the wall.

“Malfoy,” said Potter, his eyes widening.

Draco took hold of Potter’s hoodie and pulled it off his body.

“M—Malfoy,”

He pulled Potter’s t-shirt upwards and stared at the redness all over one side of his torso that indicated the beginning of a new bruise. “You fucking fool,” Draco snarled.

When all Potter did was stare back at him with dilated pupils, Draco pressed into the bruise. Potter hissed.

“We had a plan.” Draco repeated, livid. “Why didn’t you follow it.”

“I— this really isn’t the best way to keep me focused,” Potter breathed.

Draco pressed into Potter’s side again. “Why didn’t you follow the fucking plan.”

Potter groaned. “Jesus.”

And that is when Draco began getting just a teensy, weensy bit turned on. He glanced down at where his hand was in contact with Potter’s skin, and noticed that if he moved his thumb just that little bit to the right he would brush Potter’s nipple.

“We caught Rookwood,” Potter muttered. “You got what you wanted, didn’t you?”

Draco stared into Potter’s eyes. Softly, dangerously, “You think I wanted to see you lying like a corpse on the floor?”

Potter glanced downwards, at Draco’s lips. “No.”

“No?”

“I wasn’t on my knees,”

For that, Draco pressed into his bruise again. Potter clenched his jaw against the groan and maintained eye contact through the pain. A thrill went down Draco’s spine. He let his thumb swipe carelessly to the right. Potter’s hair was wet around the edges from his sweat.

“If you ever do anything like that again, I’ll kill you,” 

“Yeah?” Potter murmured, definitely not paying any attention, and  _ definitely  _ staring at Draco’s lips.

“Just do it, you coward.” Draco snarled.

And it turns out Potter  _ was _ paying attention, because he took Draco’s head into his hands and kissed him. The contact between them was the breakdown of a dam. Draco closed his eyes and pulled Potter closer.

And then he was lost. Lost in the desire to consume Potter on the spot and be consumed in return. He opened his mouth and parted Potter’s lips with his tongue. Potter tightened his hands into Draco’s hair and pressed into him harder. They were fighting, and Draco never wanted to stop. He’d been waiting, it seemed, his entire life just to feel Potter like this. To have him desperate under his hands, and be completely undone by the sensation. All the systems of control within Draco broke upon hearing the sounds Potter was making, feeling the warmth of his tongue, its slipperiness. The softness of his lips, the pebbling of his nipple. The ghost of his breath. Him.

Him. Harry Potter.

Potter’s hands were firm and covetous. They broke Draco from the outside in, wreaking disaster in their path. There was fire in his fingertips, and Draco, kamikaze, was gunpowder.

They were fighting, even in this. Their bodies never stopped squirming for the upper hand, screaming in pants and groans and the wet language of tongues. And Draco thought,  _ How can I live now that I know. _

_ Now that I know what you taste like. _

Like skin, and salt, and sin.

Like all the sin that ever was.  _ You’ve tempted the devil, Potter. _

Draco broke the kiss, panting. He gazed in wonder at the blank desire on Potter’s face, and ran a thumb over his reddened bottom lip. The darkness of Potter’s eyes and the emotion they evoked within Draco terrified him. Potter opened his mouth against Draco’s thumb and it was with madness—liberating and ghastly—that Draco kissed him again. It carried on like this for a while. Anytime one of them would break away for breath, the other would follow his lips like a magnet, and together, they would continue to drown and drown and drown.

By the time they pulled away, Draco was in such a haze that he couldn’t have known when they stopped, or why. Or even which one of them had been the one to break away first.

Potter took in a shaky breath, looking like a wet-dream, “I told you I wasn’t a coward.”

Draco couldn’t do anything but laugh and wonder, still intoxicated, what the ever-loving fuck had just happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem that Draco was annotating in English was Annabel Lee by Edgar Allen Poe. (Two words: Emo Romance.)
> 
> Also, the nail polish colours that Draco and Pansy were talking about exist! They're OPI products.
> 
> And finally, I've realised that by the time I find enough time to write a new chapter, I've pretty much forgotten what it was that I've written previously (hence why it takes me a fckg lifetime.) (also procrastination, but shhh). I would therefore really appreciate it if any of you could comment about what you're curious about knowing/seeing. It would make writing the next chapter faster for me (because it would remind me of all the random things I added but forgot about later). No worries if you have no idea what's going on. Neither do I lmao.


End file.
